


Above Us Only Sky

by KTLane



Category: Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 174,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KTLane/pseuds/KTLane
Summary: 1966 was a year of seismic changes for the Beatles. By the end of the year, the last single Beatle, Paul McCartney, was on the verge of saying “I do” to his California sweetheart, Marisol Hemingway. And then life happened.“Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.”  — John Lennon*sequel to In Your Atmosphere*©KTLanehttps://www.wattpad.com/user/kiwi747





	1. Prologue

 

It was the end of a long and arduous day that had begun in Northern California and ended in Southern England, and Marisol was shattered.

Even in Pan Am’s spacious First Class cabin on their newest DC-7, the seats weren’t designed for holding a toddler on your lap on a six hour trip across the Atlantic after a five hour flight from San Francisco. By the time they landed in London, Marisol felt like she’d spent the day wrangling a heavily caffeinated chimpanzee who was allergic to sleep, and then there was a lengthy delay at Passport Control and a missing suitcase and a limo from Heathrow which ended with Melody screaming her lungs out and Marisol’s head pounding. When they reached Grandma Bellamy’s house in Sussex, Marisol was ready to kiss the rain soaked ground.

“I’m so close to the point where I scream at her to stop screaming,” Marisol shouted to her mother over Melody’s screams.

Mrs. Hemingway calmly picked up her wailing granddaughter. “Is that how you plan to teach her irony?”

Melody had finally cried herself to sleep in her grandmother’s arms, Marisol’s mother was off somewhere soaking her swollen feet, and Marisol fell onto the bed feeling like a bad parent: exhausted, longing for sleep, but her mind wouldn’t shut down. _What am I doing?_ she asked herself, not for the first time.

She lay spread eagled on the bed, staring at the tiny guitar-shaped water stain on the ceiling, longing to talk to Paul, to hear his voice. Five minutes—that’s all she needed. He would soothe her misgivings and distract her with his irrepressible charm and in minutes they’d be laughing together at the horror of this day. But of course that was impossible. There was no way to get through to him. All she could do was wait. She’d grown good at waiting, and after three years, all the waiting was about to come to an end.

But Marisol had something to take care of first. One last order of business, before she started her new life here in England.

Swinging her legs off the bed, she reached in her purse and pulled out the tattered journal that had been her constant companion over the last three years. Her final tether to Dan.

She clicked a ball point pen open and closed, open and closed. How do you begin to say goodbye to your forever person? With a ragged sigh, Marisol opened the journal and began to write.

 

_August 29, 1966_

_Dear Dan, my first forever love,_

_You’ve probably noticed I haven’t been journaling to you as much. Melody is walking now. Enough said, right? And the move to England has everyone in a dither. By everyone I mean Mother._

_I haven’t put my thoughts on paper, but you are never far from them. This page is already blotched with tears and I’ve hardly begun to write._

_You’ll say you’re proud of me for moving on. Life is short. Far too short for some. And I can sense you smiling and shaking your head at the person I chose to “move on” with._

_“Go big or go home, right Marcy?” is what you’d say._

_So here I am. Engaged to a man I’ve watched become one of the most famous faces in the world. Engaged, and we’ve yet to spend more than a few weeks together at a time._

_Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans, said a dear friend of mine once in a letter. While I was busy grieving you, my life happened. And here we are. Starting our new lives._

_Losing you the way I did, right after the tragedy with Papa, nearly broke me. I didn’t think I would ever smile again. I wanted to stay in bed with the curtains drawn, live in my head in the past with you, pretend we still had our lives stretching like an endless road ahead of us. So many plans, so many dreams ended that night you left my house and didn’t make it home. All I wanted that summer was to die and be released from the pain of missing you._

_I don’t even know what spark kept me going. Maybe it was the thought of my nieces, Sophie and Lucy, two years old at the time and brimming with possibility and hope. I couldn’t leave them a family legacy of more pain._

_Maybe it was my Grandma Bellamy, my English grandmother. You’d have loved each other. She let me wallow in my tears for a few months and then told me to “put on your brightest lipstick and pull yourself together.”_

_If only it were that easy. I can’t bear to read my diary entries to you from the summer of 1963 because the raw, immediate pain of losing you overwhelms me._

_You know, Dan, I was never good at religion. Hemingways don’t like being told what to do. But four months after you left I got down on my knees and begged God, the Universe, or Karma… whatever higher power was listening, to please take pity on me and send me a distraction, something to take away the constant pain of No More You._

_Be careful what you pray for, isn’t that what they say?_

_I could never have dreamed a bigger distraction than Paul._

_With him in my life there’s no time to ache for the past or even give a thought to the future. He lives fully in the present and so do I when I’m with him._

_Is he my one, my true? He must be, because after all we’ve been through for the past three years we’re still drawn to each other in a way I’ve never experienced. You made sense to me. Falling in love with the biggest international pop star in the world makes no sense. But who can explain human chemistry? It’s a mystery how the people you connect with aren’t always the ones who make sense._

_At this very moment he’s playing a rock concert at Candlestick, the home of your Giants, in front of a crowd of 25,000, can you imagine? The last show of his tour, and he’s practically in our backyard, while I’m here, an hour southeast of London, waiting for him to fly home. I’ve grown good at waiting since I met Paul._

_He’s taught me the art of being patient. He’s taught me how to laugh and how not to take myself so seriously. He’s taught me there can be more than one great love in a lifetime but you never forget your first._

_He’s bigger than life, Dan. He has a brilliant mind, the soul of a poet and the ambition of a Napoleon. I never wanted my life to be this big. You know I don’t relish attention. The papers don’t know about Melody yet. They don’t even know about me! We’ve flown under the radar so far, but that’s about to change with my move to England. Soon enough we’ll be spotted together with Melody, and enquiring minds will want to know all about us. The tabloids will say I’m a harlot and question why we’re not married yet._

_So that’s what’s in store for us. When we fell in love, neither of us could have imagined the way Paul’s life would turn out. Here we are, three years later, still learning to cope with it._

_I don’t know how we’re going to make it work, but I know he loves me. And I love him. We’re going to make this work, because we have a daughter, and because we haven’t been able to manage living without each other._

_That means it is time for me to fully move on with all of my heart. That means I have to tell you goodbye. Again._

_I am so grateful that I was the first and last girl you loved. You deserved so much more time here, Dan. I hope that wherever you are now it’s better than this life and you have no pain and no worries._

_There will always be a corner of my heart with your name written on it, a part of me wondering what might have been, because you will always be my first love._

_xx_

_Yours always,_  
_Marisol, aka your Marcy_


	2. Chapter 2

“She’s finally down.” Mrs. Hemingway perched on the edge of the sofa, back straight, manicured hands clasped in her lap, blonde coif perfectly in place, her polished appearance belying the fact that she'd been up since dawn wrangling a cranky toddler. “You’ll need to hire help, Marisol. A driver, a housekeeper, and a nanny. At the very least.”

“A driver? I don’t even have a car.” Marisol knelt beside the hifi with a case of her record albums from home, adding them to her grandmother's collection of classical music and movie soundtracks. Her hands stilled and she smiled to herself as she reached the _Please Please Me_ album that Paul had given her on the day they met.

Exactly three years ago he had blown into her life like a hurricane—the calm in his eye, the storm swirling around him. The attraction was instant even while her heart ached for Dan. That night, and for many nights after, Marisol had lain on the floor with her head under the hifi to be closer to the speakers. Moving only to pick up the needle and return it to the beginning of the disc, she listened to every note and every turn of phrase, and little by little the music replaced the ache in her heart with hope.

“You have your grandmother’s Mini. Your Uncle Harold has kept it running for you.” Her mother leaned forward and lifted a small carryon bag onto the coffee table. “You’ll need better transportation, of course. You have the inheritance from your Papa now. There's no need to live like a peasant.”

Marisol carefully placed the first Beatles LP in front of the others and gave it a loving pat before stacking the rest of her albums behind it. “I’ll have plenty of time for all that.”

“I brought your stories.” Mrs. Hemingway took a school notebook from the bag and flipped through it as if looking for something. “When you were little you always carried around a tattered notebook. I was sure you would be a writer. Remember the one about the cat who could fly?

“That’s not how it went. There were cats warring in Ireland. Mr. Pooka, the horse, could fly. He helped them escape the fake cat king.”

“You were always lost in a story. Back when you had your own dreams….” She sat back and made that familiar tutting sound. The one that always made Marisol wonder what she’d done wrong now.

“Why did you lug a suitcase full of my middle school stories from California?”

“I didn't raise my daughters to get so wrapped up in a man that they forget who THEY are.”

Marisol brushed at a lock of hair that escaped her pony tail. “It's almost like we're having two separate conversations.”

Mrs. Hemingway stacked the notebooks on the coffee table. “When you were three years old I went to Paris for six weeks to learn gourmet cooking with Julia Child. Do you know why?”

Marisol reached up and tightened the elastic band around her hair. “Because you hated us?”

“To teach my daughters to have dreams of their own.”

“I have plenty of dreams. I’m living them.”

Mrs. Hemingway sniffed. “You worked so hard to get your pilot’s license.”

“I can keep up with my lessons here.”

“If you’d stayed in California, I could’ve looked after Melody while you pursued your goals. Instead, here you are in England, losing your head and flapping about over a man.” She tutted and stared out the front window.

“I’m not going to do that, Mother. I’m not going to flap about.”

“Speak of the devil.” Mrs. Hemingway stood, shaking her head with her hands on her hips. “That’s all what we need, in the midst of all this unpacking. Did you know he was on his way?”

  
Marisol didn’t waste a split second looking out the window. She didn't even pause to check her appearance in the hallway mirror as she flung open the front door.

And there he was. Standing in her driveway, dressed in dark green trousers, a black shirt and mod floral tie and yellow tinted aviator shades, the epitome of cool as he chatted away while a driver lifted cases from the trunk of an Austin Princess.

Inexplicably, a wave of shyness swept over her and all she could do was stand and stare at his dark shiny hair, his graceful movements. Even from a distance he oozed charisma. It came as natural to him as breathing. Beatle Paul, who had belonged to the whole world all summer, was once again all hers.

He looked up and saw her and straightened, lowering his tinted shades so she could see his large expressive eyes, fastened on her, and he flashed that heart stopping smile.

Lightheaded with anticipation, her heart pounding in her ears, she barely lifted a hand in a little wave. As if she were five and her schoolgirl crush had just arrived on the playground. The boy she wanted to chase her. The only one she would let catch her.

He pointed at her, grinned and curled a finger in a beckoning gesture. Come here.

He shrugged his bright blue Pan Am bag off one shoulder and held open his arms, just as Marisol raced across the courtyard and launched herself at him, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. He stumbled a step backwards, laughing, adjusting his stance to support her weight.

“I thought you were going to stand there all day and wave at me,” he said with a laugh in his voice.

“I wasn’t sure it was really you,” she said, thinking as she said it how ridiculous it sounded. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“We landed two hours ago.”

“What took you so long?” she asked, squeezing him tighter.

“You missed me?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Every minute of every day,” Marisol said, her face in his neck. Breathing him in. “You smell like an airplane.”

“No doubt a massive turn on for you, innit? I show up smelling like jet fuel and you're in the palm of my hand.”

"I'm always in the palm of your hand." Marisol smiled into his neck, not wanting him to see how giddy he made her. “How was your tour?”

“Filled with fear, foul-ups and foul weather. I’ve never been so glad to be home.” He adjusted her weight and Marisol tilted her head back to look at him.

“Am I heavy?”

Paul laughed. “In all the right places.” He released his hold on her and Marisol reluctantly slid down his body, getting a proper look at her fiancé. He looked like he needed to shave and his usually peefect dark hair was mussed from traveling all day. And he still managed to look so good it was like he was an impersonator of himself.

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve been dreaming of this day for months. But in my dreams you showed up wearing nothing but a smile and Chanel No. 5.”

“I’m fresh out of Chanel No. 5.”

“Even better.” He shoved his glasses onto his head and grinned. “Hello Gorgeous.”

Behind them, a uniformed man with a black cap cleared his throat. “Want I should bring the cases inside, Boss?”

“I’ve got it, Bill. You can head back. Thanks.”

“Right, Boss. You know where to find me.”

Paul turned back to Marisol. “So. Where’s my girl?” He slung his Pan Am bag over his shoulder and hefted a suitcase, tossing her a jaunty wink. “My other girl.”

“She’s sleeping. We’ve had kind of a rough morning.”

Paul strode toward the house, leaving a carrier bag full of what looked like record albums in the driveway. Marisol snatched up the bag and scurried after him.

“She probably needs to sleep. She was a real cranky pants after sitting in our laps all night on the flight over and I think she has her nights and days mixed up…"

“I'm sure she'll be fine.”

Marisol's mother stood in the foyer, blocking the stairs, a smile on her lips that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Oh. Hello Paul. We weren’t expecting you so soon. I see you've brought luggage."

Paul grinned and set his bags inside the house. “Great to see you, Grandma. I came straight from the airport. Couldn't wait to get my hands on my girls.”

“You may call me Marlene. I thought we'd discussed that?”

“Sorry. Marlene.” He placed a kiss on her cheek and his hands on her shoulders, gently shifting her away from the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“To see my daughter.”

“Melody is sleeping. She screamed all morning from exhaustion.”

Paul looked amused. "She just misses her da, doesn't she?”

“Go through to the kitchen and have a cup of tea and a biscuit until she’s had a proper nap. The journey was abysmal and we are shattered.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Paul smiled at Marisol. “Is she in your old room?”

Marisol nodded. Her mother narrowed her eyes at Paul. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Mother. He hasn’t seen her in two months.”

“It’ll be all right, Grandma…erm, Marlene. Be right back.”

Mrs. Hemingway huffed and shot a glare at Marisol. “Stop him.”

“I take my tea with one sugar,” Paul called over his shoulder as he bounded up the stairs two at a time.

“Honestly, Marisol. I don’t see how you tolerate that hard-headed man.”

Marisol couldn’t tear her eyes from the back of her fiancé, in his oh-so-tight dark green trousers and form fitting satin shirt, whistling a little tune as he turned the corner, on his way to wake up their daughter.

“Oh, I don’t know. He has his good points.”

“Are you going to stand there with that dopey look on your face while he disturbs the baby after I spent all afternoon getting her down? I’ve flown halfway across the world to settle my daughter and granddaughter and he bursts in like he owns the place and goes straight to her cot. Such an obnoxious thing to do. At the very least, it’s impolite.”

Marisol tried to keep the loopy grin from her face. “Yes mother. Yes it is. Very impolite. I’ll be right back.”

Paul was stretched out on the bed with his head propped on his elbow and one hand on Melody’s back, watching her sleep.

“She’s grown,” he whispered as Marisol stretched out on the other side of their daughter.

“They do that,” Marisol whispered back.

“What have I missed, while I was out making our fortune?”

“Well, she’s walking a little, I told you on the phone, and she talks all the time. Oh, and she squeals every time she hears Beatles music.”

“Typical girl then.” They exchanged a smile, and Paul’s eyes lingered on hers. “There's that smile. I missed that smile. It was shite being in San Francisco and not seeing the two of you. But I knew you were on your way here, so I kept on grinning and shucking and …” He paused and heaved a sigh. “The Greatest Show on Earth is over, Mari. Eight years of performing. Can you imagine? I don’t even know who I am when I’m not on stage, or traveling somewhere to be on stage.”

“Maybe it’s time you figure out who you are…off stage.”

He rolled onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes. “Eight years. What do we do now?”

Marisol carefully crawled over her sleeping daughter and positioned herself between Paul and Melody, her head resting on his shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. You’re all geniuses. Well…three geniuses and a drummer.” She tilted her head to smile at him as he gave out a halfhearted chuckle.

“Aren’t you excited to be in one place for a spell?”

“I suppose. There’s so much more I’ll be able to do in London — concerts and art shows and people to meet. That's the part I'm looking forward to. That’s how I get my inspiration.”

Marisol made a sound of agreement and curled herself around him. It was like a dream come true, finally being here, their life together about to begin. They held each other quietly as the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle. “Your tea is ready,” Marisol mused. “I can’t believe she actually made tea.”

“Do you suppose she’ll serve it to us in bed?”

“I’m 100% certain she won’t.”

“How long is your mother going to be here?”

"Not long. Be nice. She's been a lot of help. You just flew from California yourself. How would you have liked to have had a toddler on your lap the whole way?"

"I wouldn't mind. She's soft and sweet and smells like her mommy. I'd hold the both of you on my lap all the way from California if that's what it took to get you here."

“You romantic devil. You are so getting laid tonight.”

Paul tightened his arms around her. “Am I? It's been two months and I wouldn't think anything could cool my ardor.. but the thought of your mother in the next room just might. How long is she staying again?”

“Stop it. We could go into London for a night out. Take advantage of Grandma babysitting while she’s here. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a night in. If you know what I mean.” His hand dipped beneath the hem of her shirt, his warm fingers grazing her bare skin. “Are you even wearing a bra?”

“Don't get any ideas. The door is wide open."

"That’s easily remedied." He shifted his arm from under Marisol's head and rolled to a sitting position, just as Melody lifted her head and gave a short cry.

"Is she finally waking up?" Paul asked too loudly, turning and peering over Marisol to where their daughter was making fretful sounds.

"Shhh!" Marisol hissed. "Stop talking so loud and bouncing the bed and she’ll settle back down."

"You're sexy when you're bossy."

Melody turned her head back and forth, rubbing her little red nose into the coverlet.

“She's looking for Mr. Periwinkle,” Marisol whispered. "Hand me that pink elephant."

"Where is it?" Paul said, looking around the room.

"Downstairs in the diaper bag."

Paul rolled his eyes. "Then why did you say 'hand me that elephant' like it's in my back pocket? You should've said, 'Pop down stairs and fetch my luggage like the hired help."

Melody raised her head and wailed.

"Oh for Pete's sake." Marisol leapt up and scurried from the room. When she returned with Mr. Periwinkle, Paul was sitting on the side of the bed holding Melody in front of him, balancing her on his knees. She looked flushed and drooly and her enormous brown eyes crinkled exactly like Paul's when she smiled, the first smile since they'd left California yesterday morning.

"Hello baby girl," Paul murmured, kissing her pink cheek.

Melody smiled and blinked at him a couple of times as if she couldn't believe her eyes.

Marisol stood in the doorway and watched them rediscovering each other for a moment. "Did she recognize you right away?" she asked, coming into the room.

"Course she did, I'm one of the most famous people in the world," Paul said, and Marisol laughed. He stuck out his tongue and Melody tried to grab it, then stuck out her tongue at him.

“Charming,” Marisol said.

She sat on the bed beside them and held up her daughter's favorite toy, but Melody didn't even look her way. The man in front of her, with his animated faces and funny voices, was far more captivating. He suddenly made a barking sound and Melody looked briefly startled before chuckling low in her throat. He barked again and Melody bounced on her toes and squealed.

Marisol dropped the hot pink elephant in Paul's lap.

“Wait, Who is this again?” Paul said, looking down.

“Mr. Periwinkle. It's her favorite. Other than you, of course.”

“Shouldn’t it be called Miss Fuchsia?”

“She doesn’t know her colors. She’s only a year old.”

“Who named him? Is our daughter colorblind?”

“No, silly. I named him.”

“Are you colorblind?”

“Of course not. I have my flying license. My recreational license."

“That’s my girl. You did it.” Paul lifted Melody closer to his face. “Mummy did it! She mastered one of those little bitty airplanes, and now she can strike that off her list!”

Melody gurgled back at him. “gogligogligli…”

“And I’m only 10 hours from my private pilot’s license. I could get that in a couple of months, tops.”

“That’s wonderful babe, but why would you want to do that?”

“What do you mean?” Marisol tilted her head at him. “I already said, if I don’t get my full license I’ll have to keep flying with all these restrictions, like I can’t have passengers or fly higher than…

“Mari.” He looked briefly at the ceiling, as if she was trying his patience. “You can’t seriously be thinking about wanking around in the sky in a little sport airplane, now that we have a baby.”

Marisol felt a stirring of unease. Did Paul think his ring on her finger meant he could start bossing her around? Did he think he could decide whether or not she could take flying lessons, for Pete's sake? She opened her mouth to contradict him. Their eyes met, and his were filled with tenderness. “C’mon, baby. You know how I feel about that. It isn’t safe.”

“It _is_ safe. It’s a lot safer than what you’ve been doing all summer,” she pointed out, disliking the petulant sound of her voice.

He considered that. “You’re probably right. But I’m not touring any more…at least not for a long time. If I thought you were flying about in one of those toy airplanes I’d be off my bean. I wouldn’t even be able to write music, I’d be so worried about losing you. Right?”

When she didn’t respond, he nudged her a couple of times. When that didn’t get her attention, he cupped his hand around her neck, forcing her to look at him so he could give her those sultry brown eyes and that Paul smile. A double whammy. “Right baby?” he asked again.

“Right,” Marisol said, her expression carefully blank. If he thought he could charm her into giving him his way all the time, he was going to learn she had a few tricks of her own. She’d seen her parents butt heads often enough to know there must be a better way than screaming and shouting and throwing things. Whether or not she took flying lessons, it didn’t have to be decided tonight, when they were both exhausted from their journeys. She could finesse him into her way of thinking, and make him think it was all his idea. “We’ll talk about it,” she said, looking away.

“Yes. We will.”

He shifted his weight and pulled a tiny white box from a pocket.

"For me?"

"For the queen of my heart."

Marisol opened the box and caught her breath. "Oh, Paul. It's an antique isn't it?"

"It's Georgian. Early 1800s."

Marisol held up the tiny gold heart shaped pendant embossed with a turquoise flower. "It's a forget-me-not. It was Grandma Bellamy's favorite flower, she said, her voice cracking a little at the end. She took a deep breath. “It's beautiful. I love it.”

Paul let Melody slide off his lap. She stood between his legs holding onto his knee, bouncing in place and babbling.

He placed a soft kiss on Marisol's cheek and reached for the necklace. "Has it been hard being back here without your grandma?"

Marisol held her pony tail to one side as Paul fastened the chain around her neck. "Yes, but also nice in a way. It's like I can feel her presence. I was talking to her today actually."

"Did she answer?"

"I think so. I took Melody out in the back garden because she wouldn't stop fussing, and I got the strangest sensation that if I turned around I'd see Grandma Bellamy smiling at me from the kitchen window. Of course she wasn’t there, but I said to her, ‘Are we doing the right thing, getting married?’ And clear as a bell I heard her say ‘The best way to find out if you can trust someone is to trust them.’”

“She said that?”

Marisol twisted the diamond ring on her finger, frowning. “Could've been something my Papa Hemingway said, come to think of it.”

Paul shrugged. “Either way, good advice.”

When she turned, his face was inches from hers. She squinted. “You got your tooth fixed."

He ran his tongue over his front tooth. “I don’t know what the big deal was. You could hardly tell.”

“It was half gone.” She straightened the pendant at her throat. "Anyway. This is absolutely the best present and I love it, and I will forget you not."

"You are the best present and I love you," he said, bringing his lips to hers and kissing her again. Marisol felt all buttery inside with the idea of him so close. So hers. At last.

Melody cried out and they parted, looking down at her. "I know, I know. We're going to have to share him, Mel."

Paul smiled and cupped his hand around the back of Melody’s head, his attention still on Marisol. “Fancy going out tonight? A nice dinner on the town, and maybe back to my place…er OUR place?”

“I'd love to.” She glanced down at her pink pedal pushers and checked pink and white top with the applesauce stains from feeding Melody lunch. “I’m kind of a mess though.”

“I'll accept that condition."

“I’m covered with applesauce and drool.”

“You look like a happy little housewife.”

Marisol made a face. “I never thought of myself as someone’s happy little housewife…”

“Right. Well, Don’t get too comfortable here. As soon as the renovations are complete you’ll be moving in with me, right?”

“That’s the plan.” She sighed and pushed her sweaty fringe of bangs to one side. “So you want to go out after flying all day?”

“Sure. I’d like to take you out and show you off. If you’re up for it of course.”

She smiled. It had been so long since she'd had a night out. And who knew when it would happen again, after her mother flew home. "I'd like that."

“Tell you what. Why don’t you have a nice relaxing bubble bath? You look like you could stand a break. Take your time. I’ll entertain the baby.”

Marisol felt herself starting to relax for the first time since she’d begun packing for England. “Okay. I like the sound of that.”

Feeling ignored, Melody gave a frustrated cry and Paul picked her up again and began to sing. "Every day, it's a getting closer, going faster than a rollercoaster, love like ours will surely come my way..."

The baby seemed to be holding her breath, utterly focused on Paul's face.

"It's like I don't exist the moment she sees you," Marisol said.

"Now, that's not true. I'm just new and exciting."

Marisol reached down and scooped Mr. Periwinkle off the floor. "How are you so good with her when you've hardly been together?"

“As I was growing up I was always having babies thrust at me. My parents didn't have many friends socially. What we had was cousins. Dozens and dozens of ‘em. The women were always pregnant—they didn't have the telly back then—It was like a big Italian family, someone always dangling a baby on the knee.” He jostled Melody a little, smiling at her. “There's nothing magic about it. All you have to do is distract them. Keep them entertained. Like stagecraft.”

“Stagecraft,” Marisol repeated doubtfully.

“Ha dada dada,” Melody said around the finger she was chewing on.

Marisol nudged the baby’s fingers from her mouth, replacing them with Mr. Periwinkle. She leaned down and kissed Paul and smoothed her hand across their baby’s soft dark hair. Still the spitting image of her daddy. “I love you, and your stagecraft.”

“I love you too, baby. So good to be with you finally.”

She walked to the door, glancing back once more to see Melody tuck her face into her daddy's neck with a happy gurgle.

He was here. He was hers. Everything that came before was prologue. Today they started the rest of their lives together. What could possibly go wrong?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Pardon?” Marisol settled the needle into its groove on the outer edge of a record and, after a few scratches and clicks, the soundtrack to _The Sound of Music_ began to play.

From his seat on the sofa, Paul leisurely ran his eyes over her blue sundress and down her long legs which ended in white strappy sandals. “First you come down the stairs in that teensy tight dress looking like America’s version of Monica Vitti and then you prance around in front of me smelling like honeysuckle…with your mother in the next room.”

“Who in the world is Monica Vitti?”

“Your Italian doppelgänger. Great tits. But yours are even better.”

“Aren’t you a sweet talker.”

“Coo-coo!” Melody shouted, wriggling to be put down. Paul lowered her to the floor where she held on to his knee with one hand and pointed at the hifi with the other. “Coo-coo!” she demanded.

Marisol lifted the tonearm and moved it to another track. “Her favorite song,” she explained, as Julie Andrews began to sing:

_“And up in the nursery an absurd little bird is popping out to say coo-coo.”_

“Coo-coo!” Melody shouted at Paul, who gave her an encouraging grin.

“Yes! Coo-coo!” He looked up at Marisol. “Good lord, Mari, our daughter is brilliant. She already knows the lyrics to _The Sound of Music_!”

“Well, not exactly.” Marisol leaned over to collect the stack of journals on the coffee table, journals full of stories she’d written when she was a schoolgirl and she didn’t exactly want Paul snooping through. “She only knows that one word. Coo-coo.”

“Coo-coo!” Melody repeated.

Paul leaned forward, one hand on the back of Melody’s head as she bounced to the beat like a tiny drunk adult. He smiled at Marisol. “I can see down your dress you know.”

“You can?” Marisol shifted the journals and gave a token tug at the neckline of her dress with her free hand.

“That’s hot. The way you pretend to care that I can see down your dress. But I know you want me to see. You want me to do a lot more than see, don’t you Miss Hemingway soon to be McCartney? It’s been a very long summer, and you want me to do a lot of terribly dirty things to you tonight.”

“Sshhh!” Marisol smoothed her sundress and looked up as her mother came into the room with a small box of Iris Murdoch and Jane Austen novels.

"Did you really need to pack all these books, Marisol? You could've left these sorts of things back in California until you're certain about…" She arched a brow and gave Paul a sideways glance.

"She's certain, Marlene," Paul said amiably. "She's mine for keeps."

Mrs. Hemingway sniffed and pursed her lips as Marisol dropped her journals back in the suitcase and took the box from her mother.

"Are you putting things back in a suitcase? Are we going forward or backward?"

"Mom! I'll take care of everything. Will you relax?”

“Coo-coo! Coo-coo!” Melody shouted.

“Yes dear, let’s see how quietly we can sing now,” Mrs. Hemingway suggested.

“Lean forward again,” Paul said, smiling at Marisol.

“So we should be going,” Marisol said to her mother, feeling her face flush as she adjusted the straps of her sundress under Paul’s amused gaze. “Are you sure you don’t mind watching the baby overnight? Paul wants to see the new James Bond and dinner will be late and we may not get back if the weather…” Marisol shot a glance at the perfectly clear, cloudless skies outside the window and let her voice trail off.

Paul’s gaze followed hers. “Yeah, the weather looks ominous. Could be a factor.”

Mrs. Hemingway waved a dismissive hand and reached for the baby. “Spare me the play by play. We will manage somehow. And you really should get your nanny situation sorted before I fly home.”

  
“Your nanny situation?” Paul repeated the moment they were outside. “Why would you need a nanny? You’re not planning to work outside the home, are you?”

Marisol placed a finger to his lips. “Ssh. Let’s think about all those details later. I just want to have a fabulous night with my betrothed. I haven’t been wined and dined in a hundred years.”

At her grandmother’s Mini, their eyes met and held, and Paul kissed her, gently sucking her lower lip, running his tongue along her lip as he held it in his mouth.

“Ohhh,” Marisol said when he released her. “That was—”

He kissed her again, and Marisol began to doubt they would make it to dinner. Inside the car, several kisses later, she began to doubt they would make it out of the driveway. Paul leaned forward, pulling her more deeply into the kiss, and his elbow hit the horn, startling them both.

“Shit,” he said, his voice husky.

“We should…” Marisol began.

“Yeah, we should,” Paul agreed, releasing her reluctantly.

But he took her hand and held it, only letting go when he needed to shift.

“Tell me about the tour,” Marisol said, catching her breath as they headed out of the village.

“The tour. Well, I have to tell you, love, when I’m playing music, it’s the playground, and the worst three hours I ever spent there were pretty damn good. But let’s be honest, we haven’t been able to hear ourselves play live for three years now. Focusing on touring the way we have keeps us from progressing, you know what I mean?”

“Not really. If you’re playing music all the time, you’d be progressing, I would think.”

Paul shook his head. “You can’t do anything outrageous in the studio that you wouldn’t be able to reproduce live, see what I mean? All we do live is try to reproduce the singles the fans have bought, that’s all they want, really. We can’t change it up, because we can’t hear ourselves. Ringo can’t even do a drum fill because he’d lose us. He says all he does is sit back there and watch my hands or John’s ass to try and figure out where we are. We can’t hear a bloody thing but shrieking and roaring coming back at us.”

She nodded. “Sounds frustrating.”

His eyebrows rose. “Frustrating? You don’t know the half of it. Fourteen concerts in ten days. We were rained out in Cincinnati, first gig we ever missed, had to make up the show at noon the next day, then fly to St. Louis and play that same night in pouring rain.”

“The concert was outside?”

“Yes, outside, in a bloody American football stadium!”

“You could have been electrocuted!”

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it. Mal was situated by the main power cord with instructions to pull it at the first sign of anyone being electrocuted.”

Marisol groaned. “My god. Why did Brian let you play in those conditions?”

“Who knows. It’s all money, and contracts.” Paul shrugged. “In San Francisco we played inside a ten foot high livestock cage. Fans broke through in L.A. and we were trapped in our dressing room for hours. But St. Louis…That was the worst little gig we’d ever played at, even before we’d started as a band. Worse than the seedy clubs of Hamburg. After the gig, we got into this big, empty steel-lined wagon. We were sliding around trying to hold onto something and, at that moment, everyone said, ‘Oh, this bloody touring lark—I’ve had it up to here, man, and maybe further.’ And I finally agreed with them.”

They were quiet for a minute, lost in their own thoughts. “Maybe everyone just needs a break?” Marisol offered.

“Bloody right we do. This summer we were threatened with assassinations in Tokyo, robbed and mugged by hired thugs from the presidential palace in Manila, and at one point we were convinced that Klansmen would attempt to murder John in Memphis, after he said we were bigger than Jesus. It’s been insane, Mari.”

Marisol made a comforting sound. “I watched the first American press conference on the news, when John had to apologize about his Jesus comment. He was so pale. He looked like he’d been crying.”

Paul grimaced. “Appearing contrite is not his most natural state. All that record burning business in the southern states, it was no sweat off us, mate. In order to burn the records you’ve got to buy them, don’t you? It’s not compulsory to play them. But there was a constant threat of violence. Even from the fans, if they got hold of us they’d tear us to pieces. When they catch up to us, they grab at anything.” He looked at her. "Yes, even _that._ "

She squeezed his guitar-calloused hand. “I’m so glad it’s over.”

As they left the rolling hills of Sussex behind, Paul seemed lost in his own thoughts. “Do you think people will still buy our records if we don’t tour to promote them?” he wondered aloud.

“I think people will follow you no matter what you do. You’re the Greatest Show on Earth.”

“Were, Mari. We _were_ the Greatest Show on Earth.”

“You might tour again someday, when it all settles down. Your music will change, and your fans will grow up. Maybe they’ll want to hear the music instead of scream and charge at the stage. You never know.”

Traffic picked up as they neared London. “Where are we going?” Marisol asked.

“Home to Cavendish, to switch cars, and I could use a bath before I take you to a nice rezy.”

Home to Cavendish, Marisol repeated silently, wondering when Paul’s three story Georgian mansion would start to feel like home to her. She turned to smile at him, but he was distracted, looking down at his dark green trousers and black shirt, his floral tie loosened around his neck. “I’ve been in these clothes since California.”

“You look very mod. I like your tie.”

“Do you now? We had a three hour private shopping spree at Harrods before the tour.” He beamed a smile at her. “Wait until you see all the new boutiques along King’s Road in Chelsea. I popped in Granny Takes a Trip this summer. It’s set up like a psychedelic New Orleans bordello with an old horn gramophone. And guess what they were playing when I chanced to drop by?”

“She Loves You?” Marisol guessed.

 _“Revolver_!” Paul let go of her hand to adjust the radio, then laced their fingers together again. “I can’t tell you how many times I heard _Revolver_ this summer before the U.S. tour, just walking up Carnaby Street and King’s Road, the music coming out of the shops.”

“It’s an incredible album. The best yet.”

“You think so? Three months we worked on it. It’s more philosophical than anything we’ve done so far. And George has gotten into the sitar. Lots of new influences. We finished recording it and tracking it and two days later set off for Germany. I heard the finished product for the first time in Germany and I was alarmed at first—the whole thing sounded madly out of tune. But John said no, man, it just sounds so unfamiliar because we’ve managed to create something completely new that’s never been heard before.”

“You can say that again.” Marisol settled back against the seat, watching the scenery roll by, making appropriate sounds as her handsome fiancé reminisced about his summer, full of grace and confidence as he drove them _home._

 

Six girls sat Indian style beside the huge iron gate in front of Paul's Cavendish mansion, barely glancing up as the unfamiliar car approached. Paul rolled down the window and whistled a long note and the girls leapt to their feet, wielding smiles and cameras and black pens and autograph books.

"All right girls?" Paul climbed out of the car and stretched while the fans clustered around him, electrified with the thrill of seeing their idol, shooting questions rapid fire, flashbulbs popping all around them.

How was the tour? Why did it take you so long to get from the airport? Whose car is that? Are you glad to be home?

"We were sure the Americans were going to murder John!" one of girls exclaimed.

"Everyone's fine. The kids were great. It's great to be home but we're exhausted." Paul edged his way to the electric gate, obliging the girls with autographs and answers.

One of the girls, nearly six feet tall with wild red hair and a pretty face, bent over, peered into the car and gave Marisol a long look. “Oh no,” she moaned. “Who’s this one now?”

She rested her arms on the window frame and addressed Marisol directly. "I haven't seen you before. Who are you?"

_His fianceé. The mother of his child you know nothing about. The girl who is going to bang him senseless tonight, hopefully, if we can get inside the house._

Marisol bristled, considering all her answers before saying, "Hi, I'm Mari. Who are you?"

The girl made a face, straightened and turned to Paul. "Not enough birds here for you? You had to go and bring one back from the States?"

“You’re a nosy parker, aren’t you?” Paul answered. "Look girls, we're flat knackered. You need to head home and I promise I'll come out tomorrow."

"We missed you," the redhead said as if he hadn't spoken. "I brought you a welcome home gift." She reached into a voluminous bag and pulled out a bottle of wine.

Paul examined the bottle. "French. Not bad. Thanks, love."

He turned to get in the car and a tiny blonde with an elfin haircut clutched at his arm. "Please don't go. We've waited all day."

"Sorry love. Catch me next time." He extricated his arm and managed to get himself back in the car and drop the bottle of wine in Marisol's lap and roll up the window.

"I don't want her wine. She's probably trying to poison me."

"What are you talking about?" He steered through the gate and into the courtyard.

" _Thanks love? Catch me later love?_ Don't you think you're encouraging them?"

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Why didn’t you tell them I'm your fianceé? No one even knows. It's like you're keeping your options open."

He sighed and turned off the engine, "I'll pretend you didn't say that." He leaned across the seat and kissed her for a solid minute, and she began to forget what she was annoyed about.

“It will happen soon enough,” Paul said, pulling away and continuing the conversation. “When the press finds out, we’ll be hounded every time we leave the house. Let’s just enjoy our blissful honeymoon period while it lasts.”

Marisol stood under the glow of a Victorian street lamp near the front door as Paul retrieved his luggage.

“Do you like my street lamp?” he asked. “I brought it all the way from Liverpool.”

“Do you think anyone’s missed it yet?”

“Nah. They’ve got loads of them up North.”

The buzzer sounded the moment they closed the front door.

"Welcome home, love. This is where you live now." Paul dropped his bags in the foyer and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "At least, it will be, when the renovations are complete."

They kissed for a moment in the foyer, to the sound of squeals from the street and the intermittent buzzing from the gate.

“Join me in a glass of wine?”

Marisol looked at the bottle in her hands. "I suppose she couldn't poison an unopened bottle of wine," she grumbled.

Ignoring that, Paul took the wine from her and led her through the house, flicking on lights, past the dining room table piled with newspapers and unopened mail, around the central staircase spiraling upwards to the bedrooms. The buzzer continued to sound.

"They're being brats. Are you going to let them just do that?"

He blinked at her. "Let whom do what?"

"Those girls. They're pushing the buzzer just to be annoying."

"They're not hurting anything. They'll stop in a bit. Besides, it wasn’t so long ago I was hanging around outside the Empire, queuing to get autographs from the Crew-Cuts.”

“Yes, but that was after a show. You weren’t waiting around outside their _house_ ,” Marisol muttered. “It’s so intrusive.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

Paul held open the kitchen door for her to have a look. The room was gutted. Marisol’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

“I’ve given Mrs. Kelly a month away while the kitchen is completely refurbished. All the newest gadgets and mod cons for you, love.”

“Oh, I see.” She took another look around. “Aren’t you a prince. I can’t wait to be your galley slave with all the newest gadgets.” She nudged him playfully.

“You won’t have to cook unless you want to. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly will be living in the basement. I’m having an apartment made for them.” He opened and closed several drawers before finding a corkscrew.

“There’s a Mr Kelly?”

“Someone has to take care of the garden. I’m certainly not doing it.” Paul waved a hand around the kitchen. “Let me know what you think, and if there’s anything you need while the renovation is going on. When the kitchen is finished, you’ll be ready to move in.”

“Oh. Okay…” Marisol’s head spun at the thought of moving, again, when she had just begun the process of unpacking at her grandmother’s house.

“Come have a look,” Paul said, grabbing two glasses and leading her into the living room that ran the entire length of the back of the house. A new-fangled piece of technology sat atop his television cabinet. A video tape recorder, Paul explained. A present from the BBC to manager Brian Epstein to bestow upon each of the Beatles. “We were the first in England to own them,” Paul said proudly. “It’s the greatest little present ever. You just plug it into your set and you can record the BBC while you’re watching ITV and show the film on your telly at one o’clock in the morning if you want to.”

He fiddled with the buttons on the VTR and they settled on the sofa to watch a black and white clip of the Beatles singing their summer hit “Paperback Writer.”

“Let’s have a moment of silence for your tooth,” Marisol said.

“Brian was on my ass to get it fixed for months,” Paul admitted with a shrug. “Don’t see what all the fuss was about. We filled it in with a piece of chewing gum for the film.” He nodded at the television. “What do you think of our little film?”

Marisol turned her attention to the television as John, Paul and George mimed playing their guitars with Ringo nodding along in the background as if to say _Damn, this band is good._ “It’s quite good,” Marisol said. “The quality is almost as high as you are in this film.”

Paul barked out a laugh. “Okay, smart ass.” He looked back at the television. “Mama Cass said in NME’s _America Calling_ that I looked ill in this film. I was so knackered that day. We’d been working hard on the LP and hadn’t had much sleep. I mean, 14 songs — all got to be written and recorded till you’re satisfied with them. It’s hard work.”

“I know it is. You don't look ill at all. Mama Cass must be higher than the lot of you.”

“I thought I looked the bees knees, with my mod clothes and the tinted glasses. But my dad rang me up the moment he saw it and said, ‘have you seen the state of you, Son?’”

“Parents have a way of keeping you humble,” Marisol said, laughing. “Do you have some time off now?”

“Absolutely. Two weeks with nowhere to be.”

He poured two glasses of red wine, placed one in her hand and clinked his glass to hers.

“May our sons have rich fathers and beautiful mothers.”

“And what about our daughter?”

Paul swirled the wine around in his mouth before swallowing. “She’s a lucky one. She already has a rich father and a beautiful mother.”

He picked up a package of Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes and tapped one out. He planted a kiss on her lips, tasting of Red Bordeaux. “I’ll go get tarted up for you.”

Marisol tucked her legs underneath her on the soft green Edwardian sofa and sipped her wine, looking around the large comfortable room with its French windows opening on to the back garden, taking in the changes Paul had made since she’d last been here. The focal point of the room was a fireplace with an open grate. That would have to be childproofed before she moved in with a toddler. Opposite the fireplace Paul had installed a floor to ceiling bookcase which held two record players, tape equipment and a hidden movie screen. Oriental rugs covered the floors, and Eastern style prints were pinned to the walls.

She tried to picture her life here—cooking meals for her family, falling more in love with her handsome husband, watching Melody grow into a young woman in this home. Having more children, a loud, happy family. Growing old together, as Paul’s wife. _Becoming famous._ She blew out a loud breath, caught up in wonder at the direction her life was about to take.

They hadn’t discussed her moving in to Cavendish. Marisol had planned to stay in her grandmother’s house until they married. Not that she was resistant to living here with Paul. Marriage was forever, one hoped. It would be best to know what she would be taking on, marrying one of the most famous men in the world. Despite having met each other three years ago, they had never been together for more than a week at a time, with all of Paul’s touring and the distance between their homes. They had a lot to learn about each other before they made a lifelong commitment.

She was too tired to think about all that right now. As water began to run upstairs, she finished her wine and wandered through the house and up to Paul’s large L-shaped master bedroom which ran across the front of the house. A long polished pine built-in dressing table now lined one side of the room, stretching approximately twenty feet with lots of drawers underneath. The clothes Paul had worn from California were strewn on the floor in a path to the en-suite bathroom.

She sat on the edge of Paul’s double bed with its large carved headboard and listened to the singing coming from the bath:

 _I'm not content to be with you in the daytime_  
_Girl I want to be with you all of the time_  
_The only time I feel alright is by your side_

The lyrics melted into the sound of Paul imitating a guitar riff and she smiled. He was never still—he was forever talking, singing, drumming on something, in constant motion. She would never have another moment of boring solitude, for the rest of her life.

She lay on the bed, her face turned toward the heavy purple drapes that allowed only a sliver of daylight. As Paul happily sang and splashed his way through his bath, she imagined moving her things and Melody’s things into this mansion, trying to picture what it would look like when it was their home too. Her eyes drifted closed as she wondered what it would feel like to have young girls permanently camped outside her home, vying daily for her fiance’s heart.

  
When she opened her eyes, Paul was lying on the bed next to her, quietly watching her.

“Oh.” She blinked him into focus. “I…um…I think I…I fell asleep.”

“Mmm,” Paul said, sounding rather sleepy himself.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” she said, stretching her arms over her head.

“You looked like you needed a kip.”

Marisol rolled onto her side, studying him. “But you wanted to go out. Did we miss dinner?”

“I don’t really rate going out tonight, do you?”

“Not really.”

They watched each other a little warily, almost like strangers again, it seemed to Marisol. The number of days they’d spent in each other’s company, when you factored in all of the time Paul was on the road and Marisol was in California, probably wouldn’t add up to two solid months. And yet they were engaged to be married. They were _parents._ And she wondered if she even knew him. She wondered if he’d been faithful to her in the two months they were apart, as he crisscrossed the globe with women throwing themselves at him at every stop. She didn’t dare ask, for fear that he would tell her the truth.

“Do you ever get nervous about us?” she blurted.

His brows knit together in a puzzled expression. “What do you mean?”

“Do you ever wonder whether we’re ready to make a commitment like this?” she asked, although what she meant was, are _you_ ready to give up other women, for the rest of your life?

Paul didn’t appear to give the question a moment’s thought. He vigorously nodded his head. “Mari. I’ve done plenty of looking around. I’ve been with a lot of women. I didn’t plan on becoming a father at 23, but you can’t be a bachelor forever, can you?”

Marisol lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see how his words had stung. It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for.

“I was just having a lark, playing the field,” Paul continued, “and then my soul saw you and it kind of went, _oh there you are. I’ve been looking for you_.”

She felt her lips curve in a smile, a sigh of contentment leaving her lips. _That was the answer she’d hoped for._

“Damn, that smile,” he said, beaming at her. Then his smile wavered. “Why did you ask? Are you nervous about us?”

She quickly shook her head. “No. I want this. I want us.”

He brought his hand to her cheek, staring directly into her eyes. “My life has been so chaotic. Being with you feels like the first deep breath I’ve taken all summer.”

“I thought this day would never get here,” Marisol agreed.

“I want to show you exactly how much I missed you, every night for the last two months.”

Heat zipped through her at his words, and seeing her reaction he pulled a knowing smile. With slightly hooded eyes, his attention focused on her mouth and in a husky timbre he said, “Come here.”

Marisol didn’t need to be asked twice. And then they were a tangle of arms and legs and kisses and tongues and sheets shoved aside and more clothing scattered across the room.

The energy between them was as strong as always, their kisses as mindblowing. When she looked into his eyes, she was struck with how good they were together, how each time felt like the first time.

His dark eyes were a rabbit hole, and if she didn’t look away she was going to fall and fall and fall. And she never wanted to look away.

“My heart is beating so fast right now, I think I’m having a heart attack.” Paul took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “Feel that? You make me go from sleepy to heart attack just by turning those blue eyes on me.”

“Me too,” she whispered, gasping as he dropped his mouth to her breast.

Downstairs the buzzer sounded, pulling her attention away from Paul, from the amazing things he was doing to her.

“Do you need to answer that?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Ssshhh,” he whispered back, hovering over her. “I love you, baby. I missed us.”

“I love you too.” She let her head fall back, the sensation of him slowly filling her claiming her mind. Their edges blurred as they merged, and her last thought before she surrendered to oblivion was that the world, her world was good. Very good.


	4. Chapter 4

Marisol’s mother left for California on a Wednesday morning, and the telephone in Sussex rang ten hours later.

“So tell me about your plans,” Marisol’s father said. “Your mother says you’re delaying the wedding in favor of cohabiting with that Englishman.”

 _Cohabiting_ , her father said. As if they were zoo animals. And “that Englishman”? As if he could somehow forget Paul’s name.

Marisol knew immediately he had been put up to the call by her mother. And did she ever work fast.

“Mother’s oversharing again.” Marisol checked her watch. “And is she even home yet?”

“Marcus fetched her from the airport half an hour ago. She’s worn out from all that rigamarole.”

Marisol made a commiserating sound and stretched the phone cord across the kitchen so she could reach the kettle. She was going to need a strong cup of tea for this.

“She’s concerned about you. We both are.”

“Daddy, we haven’t finalized our living arrangements yet. We’ve only been here a little over a week. Mel and I are all settled in here at Grandma Bellamy’s house.”

“And what are his plans, do you know?”

“His plans?” Marisol repeated. She lowered the phone from her ear for a split second, checking that she could still hear the music coming from the front room. She’d left Paul on the sofa, busy plucking chords on his acoustic guitar. “Regarding what?”

Her father cleared his throat. Marisol waited out the awkward static-y silence as the Transatlantic phone line crackled. “Regarding life in general and marriage to you in specific. Your mother made the observation there’s been no mention of a wedding date.”

Marisol fought the urge to groan. She wanted to protest that her father was prying, but she knew he was only concerned about her. About Melody.

“We haven’t decided on a date exactly, Dad. We only know we want to be together. That’s the crux of our plan so far.”

Her father harrumphed. “That’s all well and good, Daughter, but there is a child in the equation, and when the media gets hold of this story…”

An intense, stabbing headache began to pound at the middle of her forehead. “I know, Dad—“

“—your name will be plastered all over the papers when they get wind of this. A Beatles baby, an unwed mother, and with your last name? They’ll be digging up all sorts of dirt on the entire Hemingway family.”

Marisol yanked open a drawer, looking for headache powders. Her father was right, of course, and it was only a matter of time before the British press discovered Marisol and their secret Beatles love child. Just two days ago the _Daily Mail_ ran this blurb: “Paul McCartney was spotted canoodling with a mystery blonde in the wee hours of the morning at the newly opened Scotch of St. James, a hangout for London’s elite.” The fans at the gate questioned Paul about Marisol whenever he brought her home, although with the ongoing construction they hadn’t brought Melody with them yet to Cavendish. And just tonight Paul had driven miles out of his way to lose a carload of fans who had trailed him from London. Sooner rather than later, they would be headline news.

“Daddy. I understand you’re concerned. We—“

“The paparazzi over there are brutal. They’re the worst in the world, do you know that?”

“Yes, Daddy. I know. We don’t want that either.” She discovered a package of Phensic headache tablets, checked the expiration date, and tossed it back in the drawer.

“There’s only so much I can do to protect you from here in California.”

“I understand. You don’t need to worry.”

“Is he there?” her father demanded. “Put Paul on the line.”

Marisol rolled her eyes. That was never going to happen if she could help it. “He’s…working at the moment…” she hedged.

There was an uncomfortable silence before her father erupted. “At midnight? This is the sort of lifestyle your mother and I don’t want you caught up in. The partying, the drug busts, and you at home with a baby and no wedding ring.”

“It’s not like that. It’s nothing like that.”

The phone line buzzed in and out like the sound of the ocean ebbing and flowing. She heard her father exhale a long breath.

“You’re a bright girl, Marisol. Your mother says she can’t talk you out of this, so we will have to trust that you know best.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she squeezed them away. It had been a rough week, trying to keep Paul happy and her mother happy and Melody happy, and Marisol had fallen into bed exhausted every night. It hadn’t even crossed her mind that she was meant to be pushing Paul to set a wedding date before she caused an international scandal and embarrassed the family.

She took a deep breath. She started once, stopped, then started again. “It’s going to be a nightmare when the press finds out, whether we’re married or not,” she pointed out, trying to keep the tears from her voice. “It’s not like they can’t count.”

She could hear the increased tempo of her father’s breathing and knew as soon as the call ended he would be reaching for the gin. If he wasn’t already.

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” he said evenly. “We’ll be here when you need us.”

Not if, but when.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

The kettle whistled. Marisol balanced the phone on her shoulder and pulled two cups out of the cabinet with shaky hands. The music from the sitting room had stopped. She looked toward the doorway just as Paul appeared, barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, unshaven with rumpled hair. “Everything all right, baby?”

She gave him a quick nod and turned to the stove. The last thing she needed was for Paul to make a lot of noise and her father demand to talk to him again.

“How are the animals?” she asked her father, to change the subject to something neutral.

“Fine I suppose. I haven’t heard anything to the contrary. We’re sending the dogs over on Friday, if you’re sure you’re…”

“I’m sure, Daddy.”

“All right Kiddo. Take care of yourself. Take care of our little girl.”

“I will. _We_ will,” she clarified.

“I’ll report back to the War Department that we’ll be hearing wedding bells soon.”

Marisol sighed. She turned to face Paul, twisting the phone cord around one hand as she sought the words to wrap up the call. Paul gave her a little wink, and it brought a smile to her lips and gave her the words. “Trust me, Daddy. This is a good man. We make a good team. I love you, and I appreciate your concern. But we’ll be all right.”

“Make good decisions, Kiddo,” was her father’s parting shot.

“Oh my god.” Marisol replaced the handset with a clatter.

“What’s going on, love?” Paul asked, pouring their tea.

Marisol held her head in her hands, pressing her palms to her temple. “My parents are stressing me out, giving me a headache.”

“Really? My headache flew away earlier this morning.”

“Ha ha.”

Paul set down the kettle and studied her for a minute before edging over to her and pressing her against the counter. “You’re stressed, are you? I can fix that.”

He lowered his lips to her neck, kissing a path to her ear, drawing her ear lobe between his teeth.

Marisol breathed deeply, letting herself feel. Trying to forget the conversation and live in the happy present moment where Paul lived.

“The baby’s asleep,” Paul pointed out.

“Mm hmm.”

“Why don’t we celebrate our first night alone, without Marlene glaring at me.”

Marisol couldn’t help giggling. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“Most women like me, you know?” he said, his hands roaming up and down her sides as he nuzzled her neck. “But not Marlene, oh no. Marlene is the roughest audience I’ve ever played.”

“It doesn’t help that you keep forgetting not to call her Grandma.”

Paul chuckled. “I’m not forgetting. I’m just sending her up.”

“It’s not that she doesn’t like you. She just wants you to make an honest woman of me, I suppose.”

Paul lifted his head and looked Marisol directly in the eye. “Is that what you want? Name the date.”

Marisol slid her gaze away from his, focusing on the tiny scar above Paul’s lip. “Of course I do, but seeing that I just got here, and the house isn’t ready, and shouldn’t we…I don’t know…be together for a month or so first?”

“Whatever you want,” Paul said amiably, returning to kissing her neck. “Did you know your left ear lobe is an erogenous zone? And an acupuncture point? And if I bite it just like this—“ He illustrated by taking her left ear lobe into his mouth and nibbling.

“My headache goes away,” Marisol finished for him, and sighed into his hair, mussing it more with her hands.

As if they’d choreographed it, she gave a little hop and he fit his hands under her bottom and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He lifted her onto the counter and kissed her collarbone. “I love this part of you,” he whispered.

Marisol shoved the tea mugs out of their way, barely noticing the hot liquid sloshing over the back of her hand. Barely noticing the dull headache. Barely remembering the uncomfortable conversation with her father. When Paul made her feel like this, everything else faded away.

 

***************************************************

  
The next week was idyllic. For the first time in many months, Paul had nothing to do but relax and fiddle around with his guitar. Marisol had nothing to do but take care of herself, a toddler, and Paul. She didn’t really mind all the cooking and straightening up. It was still so exciting and new being in England, the three of them starting their lives together.

The house in Sussex was their home base for the week, since Paul had nowhere to be in London and seemed ready for a short break from city life. They took long walks in the country, Paul carrying Melody high on his chest, pointing out woodland birds and squirrels and deer and pastoral scenes of hills dotted with sheep that looked like picture postcards. Some days they drove even farther into the English countryside, investigating ruined castles and shingled beaches.

Back at the house, Marisol would make dinner while Paul played his guitar with Melody at his feet entertaining herself with enough stuffed animals to start her own zoo. A perfect little domestic scene, followed by bath time and tucking Melody into bed with a lullaby from Paul and a made up story from Marisol involving cats and kings and princesses and fairies.

Afterwards Marisol would pour them both a glass of wine and she and Paul would curl up together on the sofa, their faces painted with flickering light from the television, sipping their wine and talking about their day. Then they would lead each other upstairs and make love in the little bed where Marisol had slept as a young girl on visits to her grandmother. The very bed where she had dreamed of a dark haired boy who would love her forever. The bed was barely big enough for the two of them, but neither of them seemed to mind. If they wanted to spread out, they could always go to Paul's house in London.

The music newspapers came out on Thursday, and one of the gossip columns asked in bold type: ”Where is Paul McCartney hiding?”

To Marisol's surprise he seemed content hiding away with her in their little country love nest. So she tried to relax instead of holding her breath waiting for the moment he belonged to the whole world again.

  
It wasn't surprising in the least how good Paul was with Melody, when he took a notion to put down his guitar and give her his full attention. Melody was usually a contented baby, only crying when she was tired or hungry or forced to be on an airplane for ten hours. But when she worked herself into a tantrum, she could rattle the rafters.

Ever the entertainer, Paul developed wild games for the three of them, variations of hide and seek and peek-a-boo that delighted Melody for hours. One night, well past her bedtime, she was staggering around in giddy exhaustion when Paul popped up like a maniacal Jack-in-the-box from behind the sofa, startling her. Melody lurched and fell back onto her bottom, banging her head against the coffee table. Paul and Marisol both gasped, which seemed to be the trigger that sent Melody into a wailing frenzy.

Marisol reached her daughter first, snatching her up and checking for a bump on her head. She made soothing noises and shushing sounds in between glaring at Paul and telling him he was being far too wild.

“Sorry, sorry, all my fault,” Paul said, looking chastened and worried. He reached for Melody.

“I’ve got her,” Marisol said tersely. She bounced and jiggled and shushed and soothed, but the screaming never stopped.

“Nobody you know could love you more than me,” Marisol sang loudly and slightly off key. “Listen to the birds who sing it from the tree.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Give her to me. You're murdering the lyrics.”

He lifted Melody to his shoulder, patting her back to the beat as his rich baritone filled the room over the sound of her cries. “Listen to the bird who sings it from the tree, And then when you’ve heard him see if you agree, Nobody I know could love you more than me.”

Before he even reached the chorus, Melody gave out a last shuddering sigh and rested her tear-stained cheek on her father’s shoulder. With her thumb in her mouth, she blinked placidly at Marisol as if to say “he does this so much better than you ever could.”

“There you are, Mamacita. That’s how it’s done,” Paul said smugly.

Marisol shook her head and made a disgusted sound at the two of them. “It’s your fault she got hurt in the first place, but you can bathe her now since you’re Mr. Wonderful.”

She flounced into the kitchen to put the kettle on, nearly falling on her face as she tripped over a set of aluminum mixing bowls. Every pot and bowl they owned was strewn across the wooden kitchen floor. Another of Paul’s favorite ways to entertain Melody: he’d taught her how to empty all the cupboards and bang on things while he calmly sat at the kitchen table messing around with his guitar. No one but Marisol had a clue how to put anything back where it belonged.

She considered shouting at him in frustration, but she could hear Paul still singing as he made his way upstairs with their daughter, and soon she could hear water running, and the thought of fifteen minutes to herself with a mug of tea and the latest Edna O’Brien novel made her forget to be annoyed.

 

“What was that story you were telling Mel just now?” Paul asked later that night. He was at one end of the sofa with his guitar in his lap, entertaining himself while the television played low in the background.

Marisol sat at the other end, her legs tucked under her with a book in her lap. She looked up from her reading. “Hmm? Oh, just some story from when I was little.”

“Did you write it? Because your mother said you used to want to be a writer.”

“She did, did she?” Marisol shook her head, afraid to imagine the conversations her mother could have had with Paul while she was otherwise engaged with Melody. “That was just…you know, a pipe dream. I could never be a writer. Everyone would say ‘she’s no Hemingway!’ wouldn’t they?” She gave him a bright smile, but he didn’t return it.

“You were just telling our daughter a story about a little girl who lived on a farm and dreamed of being a ballerina, and I think it ended with you saying ‘you can be anything you want to be,’ dinnit now?”

Marisol smiled. “Yes, of course I’m going to say that to our daughter, unless she decides she wants to become the most famous left-handed bass player and singer in the biggest band in history, at which point I would suggest she choose a Plan B, since it’s already been done. By her father.”

She looked back down at her book and flipped a page.

“What did you want to write?”

“I don’t know, children’s stories, mostly.”

“Why?” Paul asked. He stretched his arm across the sofa, his fingers cupping her neck in a gentle massage. She sighed and leaned into his hand.

“Because if you grab their attention early, you can foster a lifetime love of reading in a child, and I think reading is really important.”

“Then I think you should write them. Children’s books.”

“Maybe I will, someday.” She could feel the heat of Paul’s gaze and knew he wouldn’t stop staring at her until she fully acknowledged the conversation. He stopped massaging her neck and she looked up from her book again. “What? I’m just enjoying my fiancé and my baby. Life is good. No matter what Marlene says. I certainly don't feel like I'm missing out on anything.”

He nodded. “What are you reading?” he asked, casting a glance at the book in her lap.

“ _August Is a Wicked Month_.” Marisol tilted the cover for him to see. “It’s about an Irish single mom living in London who just wants to be loved. But she goes to France and makes a lot of bad choices. I don’t think this is going to end well.”

“Are you happy?” he asked, studying her.

“For the most part,” she said, flipping another page. “But I don’t think I’ll buy any more of her books. She just referred to a penis as resembling ‘a foxglove in a secret glade’. Which could be why this book was banned in Ireland—”

He squeezed her neck a bit too hard, making her squirm. “Mari, you know I don’t give a fig about the bloody book.”

She gave him her full attention. If Paul decided he wanted to talk, he wouldn’t give her any peace until they talked. “Of course I’m happy, silly. Now that my mom has gone, we’ll have even more time together, more long drives in the country, and the dogs will be here soon and we can go hiking, and—“

“God Save the Queen” sounded from the television, signaling the end of the day’s broadcasting, and Paul lowered his hand from her neck and heaved a sigh, prompting Marisol to wonder what she’d said wrong. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Yeah, course I am, it’s lovely escaping like this, but it isn’t reality.”

“Oh.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really.”

He sighed again and laid his guitar on the coffee table in front of them. “This is nice, a very nice little getaway, but my life is in London.”

Marisol nodded three times, trying not to look disappointed. “You’re saying your life is bigger than this. That you’d get bored here…with us.”

He made a face. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. The others have moved out in the country with their wives and families, and it’s all right for them, but I need to live in the city right now. I need to know what people are saying and doing and creating. It’s the way I get my inspiration. I need to go out at night and be surrounded by people who are part of the scene, or else I’ll stagnate. I’ll…”

He broke off, scratching his jaw, thinking, and Marisol held her breath, waiting for him to continue. He reached across again and put his hand on her bare knee, his thumb making little circles on her inner thigh.

“…and I want you to be part of all that too, the whole London scene. This is the center of the universe right now, Mari. Musically, artistically, There’s so much going on right now in London.”

She looked down, collecting her thoughts. She could learn to love London, she was sure. It was a lot like New York, only more polite. A wonderful place to live and raise their daughter, a large, lively, vibrant in-your-face sort of city with a thriving arts and culture and a rich, glorious heritage. And crowds of not-so-polite Beatles fans just outside the house watching their every move.

“Oh, right. I understand, I do. But it won’t be as easy with the baby now, and we’ve been sort of hiding out here from the fans and the press and—“

“—no, you’re right. We’ll have to get that sorted. We’ll have to release some kind of statement. Set a wedding date and whatnot. And when the house is ready Mrs. Kelly can mind Melody and we’ll go out more,” Paul finished. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Of course it is. I love being with you.” She lifted her eyes, noting the intensity in the expression of the handsome man next to her. “That’s why I’m here.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Put down your book,” he said, “or else I’ll have to take it from you, and you’ll lose your place.”

She did as he suggested, and as he stretched across her, pressing her back into the cushions, she opened her arms and parted her legs and held him close and wondered at the strength of the desire she always felt for him. This week had been wonderful, in her mind, but if Paul wanted art and inspiration and nightclubs, she’d gladly accompany him. Making a life together, that’s what they both wanted.


	5. Chapter 5

“This is it, Mari!” Paul beamed down at Marisol and held out his hand to help her and Melody out of the back of the Austin Princess. “This is where it’s at! Take it!”

After two quiet weeks decompressing from the tour, with no performances, no studio sessions and no LPs to write, Paul was clearly going stir crazy. On the way to Ringo’s party tonight to celebrate the end of the tour, he was in full Paul mode: whistling nonstop with every song on the radio and drumming on the back of the seat, on Marisol’s leg, and on Melody’s head until Marisol told him to stop it. He couldn’t seem to contain his excitement at getting back together with the lads—the four of them, with their partners and children and close friends.

Marisol handed Melody to Paul, smoothed her dress and ran a critical eye over their daughter.

“Paul, why did you give her that lollipop? It’s all over her face. She’s sticky.” She licked her thumb and wiped at the baby’s cheek. Melody jerked away and buried her sticky face in Paul’s new charcoal grey jumper.

“Only a mother would think it’s normal to wipe spit all over her child’s face,” Paul commented.

“I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t given her candy!” Marisol reached for Melody, ignoring her squeals of protest. She turned so that Paul could reach the navy bag slung over her shoulder. “Get that bottle of wine out of the diaper bag. It’s for Ringo and Maureen. This baby is a mess,” she grumbled.

“She’s fine. Relax. Everyone here knows what kids look like.”

 _Relax_ , he said. She’d dealt with a cranky toddler all day who wouldn’t nap and had just finished preparing the second meal for the three of them when her mother rang to remind her that today was the day her dogs were arriving from California. Mal Evans had been dispatched to the airport to collect them while Marisol rushed to the market for dog food and hunted all over the village for dog beds, to no avail. Cookie and Beau would just have to wing it on the rugs until she got that sorted.

Cookie and Beau arrived, thirsty and hungry and agitated from their day long ordeal, and Marisol ran out to meet them in the courtyard. In minutes she was covered with dog hair and dog kisses. It had started to feel like home.

She had just taken the dogs to the back garden for a bowl of water and a pee when Paul stuck his head out the kitchen door. “What’s taking you so long? Mal is waiting to take us to Ritchie’s!”

They had wasted at least ten minutes arguing about why Paul hadn’t seen fit to tell her there was a party tonight, with Paul insisting he did tell her and Marisol insisting if he had told her she would have bought a new dress. Paul had finally said, “I’m not interested in getting into an argy-bargy about it. Get yourself ready and tomorrow I’ll buy you all the dresses you want.”

Melody had to be bathed and fed again and dressed in her best party dress and Marisol barely had time to sweep her hair up into a messy bun, add a touch of lipstick and mascara and throw on a confetti flared dress that swung flirtatiously as she walked. Hopefully no one would care about her chipped nails or notice she’d worn this same dress on several other dates with Paul.

“Easy for you to tell me to relax!” she now snapped. “You’ve been doing sod all but playing the bloody guitar all day!”

“When did you start swearing like a Liverpool dockworker?” Paul teased, his eyes twinkling.

Marisol bit back a response, not wanting to be snappish as they walked up the drive to Ringo’s house where all Paul’s friends waited.

“Let’s get merry tonight, what do you say?” Paul suggested. He patted his jacket pocket. “I have just the thing to help you relax, trust me.”

Marisol started to respond but the front door opened and bright lights and music spilled onto the front steps and she plastered a bright smile on her face instead.

“Hey, hey! All right?” Paul was saying, and he handed off the bottle of Hemingway Sauvignon Blanc to someone Marisol had never seen before. Melody and the diaper bag were whisked away by some sort of nanny to go play with the other Beatles babies and a pale pink drink was placed in Marisol’s hand. There were air kisses from wives and slaps on the back between Paul and his mates and John shouted “Hemingway! Welcome to our shores!” Marisol wanted to cross the room to greet him but Paul pulled her down beside him on the nearest piano bench. He immediately launched into a medley of rousing old standards and soon Ringo was leaning over Marisol’s shoulder pounding out a duet with Paul.

As soon as her drink was empty it was magically refilled, beautiful people with alcohol bright eyes were gathered around the piano smiling at the two of them, and Ringo buzzed around taking photographs. “Give us some Buddy Holly!” someone shouted, and Paul began playing a bouncing piano riff, singing into Marisol’s face with Buddy Holly’s unique hiccuping style:

“All of my love, all of my kissin’  
You don’t know what you’ve been missin’, oh boy!  
When you’re with me, oh boy!  
The world can see that you were meant for me…”

“Awww, look at the lovebirds,” a female voice said. “If your foot isn’t tapping to this song you’re dead,” said a man to Marisol’s right. “Long live rockabilly!” someone shouted, and Paul let out a whoop that startled Marisol into splashing her drink in her lap as he launched into “Race With the Devil.”

“In case you don’t know the chorus, it’s umuhhfhrharha muhfufarrrrn, umuhhfhrharha muhfufarrrrn, umuhhfhrharha muhfufarrrrn on down the line. Everyone sing!” John yelled.

By the time Marisol excused herself to check on Melody, she was feeling very relaxed indeed, but happy to leave the limelight to Paul. Being the center of attention had never been her thing, and it was definitely Paul’s thing. He thrived on it.

Infused with alcohol and the warmth of the packed room, Marisol felt her cheeks flush as the crowd parted for her, and it seemed that every head turned to follow her progress. She supposed it was only natural that Paul’s friends would wonder about the American who had captured his heart, but she noted a critical gleam in the eyes of several women as they scanned her from head to toe.

She turned at the doorway in time to see a beautiful brunette in a red miniskirt and white knee high boots slide onto the piano bench next to Paul and aim a smile at him. Who were all these people? She barely knew any of them, and Paul hadn’t bothered to introduce her. He was too anxious to entertain them all. She left him to it and wandered down a hallway in search of a bathroom. She turned the handle of a likely door and three young women and two men lounging on a bed stared up at her in a frozen tableau.

“Can we help you, lass?” one of the men asked.

“Oh…just looking for a bathroom…a loo,” Marisol said.

“End of the hall,” said a barefoot blonde.

“Care to join us?” the man asked.

“Oh…no thanks,” Marisol said, and one of the girls shifted her position to reveal a small hand mirror in the center of the bed upon which one of the men was using a razor blade to tap out lines of cocaine.

She backed out of the room, closing the door softly. A slight young man about her height with startling red hair and black rectangular glasses was walking down the hallway, and she stood aside to let him pass. He nodded a polite hello, smiling when he saw Marisol’s classic double take.

“Hello there,” he said, his hand extended. “Peter Asher.”

“Oh! Hi! Hi, I’m Marisol…Hemingway,” she stammered, taking his hand and shaking it. “I recognized you from…um… _Top of the Pops_!”

He laughed. “You watched that, did you?”

“Every Thursday night!” Marisol enthused. She’d been in England for two weeks, but both Thursdays Paul had indeed insisted they watch _Top of the Pops_ with the rest of the entire country. “Your song was great,” she added.

“You can’t go wrong with a song written by the one and only Paul McCartney, can you?” He gave her a big smile, which she returned.

“No! You sure can’t,” she said brightly, wondering if she looked and sounded as awkward as she felt, making small talk with Jane’s brother.

“Thursday nights are great,” Peter said, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He looked like he was settling in for a long conversation. “You wait for the charts to come out on Monday, you see, and if your song has gotten on the charts or is going up them, you know you’ll be taking the train up to Manchester on Thursday.”

“It’s filmed live then?”

“Well, it is for most everyone. The Beatles send in films of their songs, but the rest of us schlep up to Manchester and do it live. It’s such a great evening though, because everyone is watching, and afterwards you can go clubbing, you see. You walk into the clubs after you’ve just been seen on telly and, I mean, how can you fail? All these girls run up, wanting to dance with you.”

“At the very least,” Marisol added, laughing along with him even though she was barely able to focus on the conversation, with her mind too busy wondering if Jane's brother knew of her connection to Paul.

“How are you finding England? Are you all settled?” he asked, which answered _that_ question.

“We love it. We’re settling in just fine.”

“Great. Paul’s promised to help us with Indica so I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”

“Oh, great, looking forward to it!” Marisol said, even though she had no idea what Indica was.

He touched his fingers to his forehead in a little salute before wandering away. Marisol continued down the hallway, realizing, to her dismay, she quite liked Jane’s brother. He seemed so humble and self-effacing and unaffected by fame, when by all accounts Peter and Gordon were doing very well in the charts and had made quite a name for themselves.

She found the bathroom, took a few minutes to freshen up, and continued through the house in search of her baby. After a few more twists and turns the pounding music and party noise faded and she followed the sound of children’s laughter up a wide set of stairs.

Melody didn’t appear to notice her parents were missing, and who could blame her? There were a dozen children in the room, from toddlers to preschoolers, and enough toys to start an F.A.O. Schwarz. Ignoring all the toys strewn across the floor, Melody and a dark-haired toddler close to her age were standing unsteadily in front a table that held an oscillating fan, squealing at each other every time the fan moved across and blew their bangs off their foreheads.

Two uniformed nannies appeared to be standing by in case any pint-sized riots broke out or someone wanted their mummy, but why would they, in this Starr version of Disneyland?

A wholesome, very young looking blonde in a sequined pants suit leaned against the wall just inside the room. She gave Marisol a friendly grin. “They’ll sleep well tonight, won’t they?”

“Let’s hope so,” Marisol said, smiling back.

“Is that one yours?” the blonde said, pointing at Melody.

“Yes,” Marisol said, wondering how she’d known.

“She looks like a McCartney,” the woman said, answering the unspoken question. She held out a slim, manicured hand. “I’m Kim. And you’re Marisol, right? That’s my little girl your daughter is playing with.”

As Marisol shook her hand, she felt one of those rare reactions when you meet someone and immediately know you’re going to connect with them. “She's darling. How old?”

“Fifteen months.”

“So is mine!”

“Do you think we’ll live through it?”

“I have my doubts.”

They were laughing together when Cynthia Lennon appeared in the doorway.

“Marisol, how are things? I’ve come to check on Julian. He’s a little older than the others. I wanted to make sure he’s not lording it over anyone.”

Marisol’s eyes settled on the sweet looking chestnut-haired little boy, sitting alone in an area of the room with child sized plastic chairs in front of a television that was playing, wonder of wonders, an early video clip of the Beatles live in concert.

“Look at him! He’s getting so big! How old is he now?”

“Going on four. Can you believe it?” Cynthia sighed and turned her attention to Marisol. “How is the move going? Are you all settled?”

“Getting there. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since…I think Julian was a baby…”

“It’s been a mad few years, but we’re coping.”

“Do you love your new house, out in the country?”

There was a pause before Cynthia answered. “Of course. It’s a wonderful house. I’m sure a lot of people would be envious of our lives, but I think the best times were before, in the simplicity of life.”

Not knowing what to say, Marisol merely nodded.

“Are you having fun tonight?” Cynthia asked.

“Yes, it’s lovely.”

“Paul was making quite a production of the two of you together downstairs,” Cynthia observed.

“Was he?” Marisol frowned, not quite sure what she was getting at.

Cynthia patted her arm and the smile on her face faltered. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Marisol watched open-mouthed as Cynthia turned toward the stairs.

Kim had obviously heard the exchange and her appalled expression was comical. “The bloody nerve of her!” she said, and Marisol cringed, hoping Cynthia hadn’t heard.

“I don't know what that was about,” Marisol admitted.

“I do.” Kim’s voice was laced with confidence.

Marisol waited a beat. “Okay…you want to fill me in?”

“Let’s face it. It’s the same with Maureen.” Looking around, Kim lowered her voice. “She and Cynthia are nice enough girls, but they are Liverpudlian born and bred, low-key homemakers. They met the lads before all that Beatlemania bollocks. They were hardly prepared for the tidal wave of attention lavished on their husbands, were they?

“How could you be?”

“The closer their husbands get to the center of the whirlpool, the more distant they get in their understanding of each other.”

“I can see that,” Marisol said, remembering the conversation she’d had with John this past February, when he’d smoked a joint at Paul’s house and confessed to her how unhappy he was. “John’s just brilliant,” she mused. “It would be hard for him to find someone on his level anyway.”

“Well. A tenner says neither of those marriages will last. Everyone knows.”

Marisol bit her lip and looked away. She wondered what “everyone” was saying about her relationship with Paul. If “everyone” was taking bets on whether it would last.

As if reading her mind, Kim continued. “You’re nothing like Cynthia. You're far more sophisticated. She’s wrong to make you think you can’t keep your man interested just because she can’t keep hers.”

“Oh. Well, that’s reassuring.” Marisol said, her smile a little shaky.

Kim rummaged in her purse and sighed theatrically. “Fancy stepping outside with me? I’m in need of a smoke or five.”

Marisol glanced around. Cigarette smoke was in the air all through the house, and even one of the nannies was standing beside a cracked window, holding a cigarette.

“Sure, but can’t you smoke in here?”

“Keith doesn’t like me to smoke,” Kim said.

“Okay…can you hang on a tick? I want to say hi to Julian.”

After making sure that Melody still seemed to have no qualms about being left alone in a room full of other children (did she get that from her father?) Marisol wandered over to the dark-eyed child by the television set and knelt down beside him.

“Hi, Julian! I’m Marisol, I’m a friend of your parents. I haven’t seen you since you were a little baby.”

Julian gave her a distinctly suspicious glance before turning his attention back to the television. He’d probably been taught to be wary of strangers. They were probably always peering at him and photographing him and even grabbing at him.

On the television Ringo played a familiar drum fill and John began to sing. “I think I’m gonna be sad, I think it’s today, yeah…”

What an amazing lyric, Marisol thought, captivated at the sight of Paul bounding up to the mic and joining John on “dayyyyy yeah!”

The concert was one she’d never seen before. The camera was focused on the two lead singers, Paul bouncing happily to the beat and grinning at John who chomped a wad of chewing gum between every vocal line, and the sight of them sharing the mic was so compelling that Marisol decided she would be perfectly content to sit on the floor and watch it with Julian for the rest of the night while the party carried on downstairs.

“Do you like the Beatles?” she asked Julian.

Julian flicked his dark eyes her way. “I like seeing Daddy happy.”

“Oh.” Her smile froze, and Marisol suddenly wanted to hug this sad little boy, but that would understandably probably freak him out. “I’m sure Daddy is happiest when he’s home with you and Mommy.”

Julian turned back to the television, and Marisol got to her feet with a sigh.

Melody and Kim's baby had moved to a table with another little boy where they were simultaneously building wobbly towers of colorful wooden blocks and knocking them over, a noisy game they seemed to find hilarious.

Marisol felt a little pang in her heart as she followed Kim out of the playroom. Was her baby really so independent already?

Kim led the way through the house, avoiding the crowded front room where Paul had stopped banging on the piano and rock music now blared from a full size jukebox.

In the kitchen, they found Maureen in a black cocktail dress and red checked apron, leaning over an open oven and fanning the air with a pot holder.

“You didn’t see me,” Kim announced, winding her way through a cadre of waiters holding trays of canapés.

Marisol paused to exchange cheek kisses with Maureen. “Thanks for the wine, love,” Maureen said, pushing her sweaty bangs off her forehead.

“Thank you so much for having us. Do you need some help?” Marisol asked. “I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner.”

“No, love, I have help.” Maureen indicated the uniformed waiters bustling around the kitchen. “I’m only overseeing.”

“Well, if you need anything, I’ll be just outside,” Marisol said, before following Kim onto the patio.

Kim was already taking a long drag of a cigarette. “Oh, that’s nice. I needed this.” She offered a pack of cigarettes to Marisol, who shook her head.

“Your…Keith…doesn’t let you smoke?”

Kim squinted through the smoke. “He says he doesn’t want me smelling and tasting like an ashtray.” She shrugged. “Guess I can’t blame him.”

“Well that’s awfully controlling, don’t you think?”

“Honey, they’re all controlling.”

“Maybe they are, but I’ll tell you what. If my father ever told my mother not to smoke, she’d throw a plate at his head.”

“That’s one way of handling it, I suppose.”

She spoke with the smallest trace of an accent Marisol couldn’t define. “Were you born in London?” Marisol asked, unable to quell her curiosity.

“Born in Leicester, but my father moved us to Malaysia when I was a baby. My first language was Malay. From the nanny.”

The back door opened and Marisol saw the lean figure of George Harrison silhouetted in the light from the house. He reminded her of a gunslinger in a Hollywood Western, standing in the doorway of a saloon, lighting a cigarette and shaking out the match. The door closed and he glanced up and noticed them.

“Hello ladies.”

He stepped forward, and Marisol offered her cheek for him to kiss. “All right Marisol?” He looked at Kim. “Wotcher Kim?”

Kim exhaled a plume of smoke into the night air. “You didn't see me out here,” she said. “Or this ciggy.”

George shrugged. “Fine with me.” He turned back to Marisol. “Are you having fun?”

“Sure, it’s great to see everyone.”

“Great to see everyone relaxing,” George amended.

“It was nice of them to invite the kids too,” Marisol said.

“It’s just like Rings and Mo to invite all the kids, and have people hired to entertain them,” George observed.

“When are you and Pattie going to have kids?” Kim asked, moving a little closer to George.

“Pattie doesn’t rate losing her figure. She wants to do more modeling one day.”

“You can’t blame her for that. I’ll never see a flat stomach again.”

“You look all right to me,” George said, practically batting his eyelashes at Kim.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Kim said, batting her eyelashes right back at him.

They smiled at each other in a way that made Marisol wonder if there was something going on between them.

“How do you feel about Pattie modeling?” Kim asked. “Keith says no way is his wife going to prance around half dressed in front of a bunch of randy photographers.”

George shrugged. “She can do what she wants, I reckon, as long as it doesn’t take her too far from home, I don’t really mind.”

“Keith wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“I’m not really the jealous type,” George told Kim. A look passed between them.

“Who is this Keith? Is he your husband?” Marisol asked.

“Yeah.” Kim glanced back at the house. “He’s a drummer too,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Moon the Loon,” George said. “Drummer for the Who. ‘Talking about my generation…’,” he sang helpfully.

“Great song,” Marisol said.

Kim heaved out a sigh, sending a plume of grey smoke into the night sky.

Marisol wondered if she objected to her husband being referred to as a loon, and what the story was behind that. She looked at George. “Are you happy to be home?”

“Not half,” George shook his head with a look of disgust. “That bloody tour. We were five islands of sanity in a bloody sea of madness.”

“Who’s the fifth island?”

“Neil. Nelly is sane.” George flicked away his cigarette and ground it under a boot heel. “Paul is looking for you,” he said to Marisol. “Food is ready. See you ladies inside.”

They watched him go, and Marisol gave a little shiver in the cool night air. “You can almost see stars tonight.”

“It's nice to get London out of your lungs.” Kim extinguished her cigarette and popped a stick of gum in her mouth. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” At the doorway she paused and looked back at Marisol. “Do you want to do lunch some time? Or maybe go round the shops?”

Marisol smiled. “I would love that. And Melody loves your little girl. What's her name?”

“Mandy.”

“Mandy,” Marisol repeated. “I’ll give you my number before we go.”

“Let’s exchange numbers now,” Kim prompted. ”Before we go back inside.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

There was the awkward business of searching for a pen and bits of paper, but they managed to exchange numbers and were just wrapping up when Paul found them on the patio.

“Where have you been, love? I’ve looked high and low, and didn’t spot you either of those places. So I looked hither and yon. And here you are in yon.”

“I’m right here.” Marisol took his outstretched hand, and when he pulled her in for a hug, she smelled a strong whiff of marijuana.

He nuzzled her ear. “You’re entirely too pretty,” he whispered. “Go into the loo and slip off your knickers.”

“Ssshh!” she said, giving him a little swat as she pulled away. She flicked her gaze to where Kim was standing right next to them, busy tucking Marisol’s phone number into her purse. “I think you’re relaxed enough for the both of us already.” She linked her arm with Paul’s and gave him a smile.

“I’m famished,” Paul said. “Let’s eat.”

The huge dining room table was already crowded with guests. Kim grabbed the hand of a very attractive dark-haired man with wide eyes and a drunken toothy grin. He wore light colored jeans and a T-shirt that said GREAT BALLS OF FIRE! in huge letters. Marisol watched him walk up to John Lennon and start to pull out a chair. “Do you mind if I join you?”

John took his time replying, and when he did it was deliberately slow and sardonic. “The Beatles already have a drummer, thanks.”

Everyone laughed, including Keith. He actually looked a little star struck when he sat down next to John Lennon.

So this was the controlling husband. He looked barely bigger than Kim herself. Marisol made to sit close to them but Paul led her to the opposite end of the table and introduced her to John Dunbar and his sister Jennifer.

As chatty as she’d been with Marisol, when she was around her vivacious husband Kim rarely opened her mouth. Once when her eyes met Marisol’s, she glanced quickly away as if not wanting to acknowledge they’d met. Marisol wondered if Kim’s husband tried to control her friends as well. Kim would have had difficulty getting a word in anyway, since all the large-ego men at the party hooted and laughed and shouted to be heard over the music and over each other. They spoke of the three things they all seemed obsessed with: cars, music and drugs. The wives and girlfriends were silent onlookers, meant to be seen and not heard.

But the food was delicious and the drinks flowed freely and Marisol herself was content to listen and watch the scene. She'd never seen so many glamorous young artists in one place in her life. It was like a Who’s Who of the London music and social elite.

The party was winding down and Paul had gone upstairs to fetch Melody when Marisol found herself standing next to John in the hallway. She’d wanted to talk to him all night, but Paul kept whisking her away into other conversations, other rooms. During the night many people approached her and started conversations, but not John. John was content to let people come to him, confident in his silences. He auditioned for no one. She smiled at him and he nodded, squinting at her without his glasses.

“Hemingway, has your mother left yet? I hear she can be a bit of a twat.”

 _Still the same old John_. “Who said that?” Marisol demanded. “Did Paul say that?”

“Not at all. He said it was the best week of his life, meeting and exceeding your mother’s impossibly high standards.”

Marisol had to laugh. “Okay. I’ll give you that. So how have you been? How was the tour?”

“You bloody well know how the tour was,” John snapped. “You can read the bloody papers can't you?”

“Yes, I can read the papers. I wanted to get your perspective.”

John peered down his aristocratic nose at her. “What do you want, a chronological narrative? It can't be remembered like that. The tour, my dear girl, was a bugger’s muddle of highs and ups and lows and downs interspersed with jolly-ups and madness and spells of intense boredom and chronic depression. Fueled by great quantities of medicines washed down by other medicines, which of course is why my memory of it is largely episodic. But that is altogether another question of fish.”

“I don't know why you had to subject yourselves to all those ridiculous press conferences,” Marisol mused.

“That is a question that raised itself frequently during the ensuing days, when we found ourselves surrounded by idiots and encountering considerable hostility.”

“Well I'm glad you're home. I was worried about you.”

“Your worries were well founded,” John said.

Marisol opened her mouth to ask John if it was true that the group might never tour again, but his attention was now focused on Paul coming down the stairs with Melody on his shoulder.

“Aww look-a there. It’s the Father of the Year,” John remarked.

Melody was overtired and unhappy about being snatched out of the playroom. She began doing her whiney cry, so Paul handed her off to Marisol to deal with as he made the rounds telling everyone goodbye, and there was no more opportunity for private conversations with John or anyone else.

 

**************************

 

“I made a new friend,” Marisol said on their way home, in the back of the limousine with an exhausted Melody finally asleep on Paul’s shoulder.

“Did you now? Anyone I know?”

“Kim Somebody. She’s married to the drummer in the Who.”

He laughed. “I know who Kim is. She's Moon the Loon’s bird.”

Marisol wrinkled her nose at him. “Why do you call him that?”

“Because he behaves like a lunatic virtually all of the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“We were at this pub somewhere up north, three o’clock in the morning, and the kitchen is closed, right? But Moon has just finished a gig and is full of all this adrenaline, and the bartender is ignoring him. So he picks up a mini jukebox and heaves it through a stained glass window and says, ‘Now. Where's me sandwiches?’”

Marisol shook her head, almost wishing she hadn’t asked for details. “Poor Kim.”

Paul gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe he's different at home. He's the jealous sort though.”

“Why do you say that?”

He looked suddenly pensive. “It’s none of our business. If Kim wants you to know about all that she'll tell you herself.”

It was hard to reconcile wholesome, chatty, pretty Kim living with a lunatic, jealous husband. “You know what’s strange,” Marisol said, wanting to continue the conversation. “She was really talkative and friendly when we were alone but when her husband…Keith…was around she hardly looked my way.”

“Some people are quiet at parties. Some people are observers.”

“He seemed a little controlling.”

“Ah well, who knows what goes on other people’s relationships. It’s not our business, really.”

“Do you know that people are taking bets that John and Cynthia won’t last?”

Paul’s beautiful dark brows drew together, his lips pursed in a frown. “What are you talking about?”

Marisol shrugged. “Just something I heard. I heard people are saying John and Cynthia won’t last, and Ringo and Maureen won’t last. I wonder what they say about us?”

Paul rolled his eyes. “That’s ludicrous. People need to mind their own bloody business. But it’s like my Dad always said, be happy when people are talking about you, because they’re leaving someone else alone.”

Marisol sighed and lowered her head, resting it against his shoulder. “Now that all of your elite music friends know about us and the baby, how long do you suppose it will be until the news filters down to the common folk? And the press?”

“We could always get married and put paid to it.”

He gave her little nudges with his elbow until she looked at him. His eyebrows were raised in a challenge.

"I always imagined we'd get married on our timetable. Not because some reporter outed us," Marisol told him.

"I reckon we have a few more weeks."

Marisol leaned against him and closed her eyes, suddenly finding she didn’t have the energy to continue the conversation. “What was I drinking all night? The pink thing with the strawberries?” she mumbled drowsily.

“What?” He thought for a moment. “Pink gin I believe it was.”

“It was good.”

“Ritchie and Mo throw a swanky soirée.”

He began to hum along with the radio. “Listen to this song, Mari. I wish I'd written it…well no one told me about her, the way she lied…”

Marisol shot a quick glance at her daughter, but Melody slumbered on, apparently already quite accustomed to her father providing a constant soundtrack to her dreams. She settled back against the seat. Over the driver’s shoulder, she could see grey fog swirling in the headlights. This was nice, she thought, the wheels of the luxury limousine humming on the pavement, their daughter softly snoring on her father's shoulder as they listened to the radio, shared observations and built memories together. This was how a Beatle lived.

“I told the driver to take us back to yours tonight, I think that's best, with your dogs just arrived and all,” Paul said quietly.

Marisol nodded, her cheek rubbing against the scratchy wool of his sweater. It was definitely best to not have to run the gauntlet of fans at Paul’s gate tonight. “It was an interesting night,” she mumbled, and Paul said, “Yeah, wasn’t it tremendous?”

His hand was on her knee now, his fingers teasing under the hem of her dress. He kissed the top of her head. “Did you take off your knickers like I asked?” he whispered.

She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “What knickers?”

He gave her that look, the one she loved, the one that said “as soon as I put this baby down you’re all mine.”

She smiled and snuggled against him as the limousine rolled on, taking them home to Cookie and Beau, away from sad eyed little boys and women with lunatic husbands and strangers who might be making bets that the two of them wouldn’t last.


	6. Chapter 6

_"It is appearances, characteristics and performance that make a man love an airplane, and they are what put emotion into one. You love a lot of things if you live around them, but there isn't any woman and there isn't any horse, nor any before nor any after, that is as lovely as a great airplane, and men who love them are faithful to them even though they leave them for others. A man has only one virginity to lose in fighters, and if it is a lovely plane he loses it to, there his heart will ever be."_  
_— Ernest Hemingway, 'London Fights the Robots,' written for Collier's, August 1944_

 

 

_ "My soul is in the sky." _

_ — William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act V. Scene I. _

 

 

_"If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I?"_

_— lyrics from 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow,' as performed by Judy Garland in 'The Wizard of Oz,' 1939_

 

The phone call came out of the blue. An offer too good to refuse. But Marisol did refuse, because it was so spur of the moment and impulsive and she needed time to think. She thanked the caller and took down his number and stood staring at the phone with a faraway look in her eyes that Angela noticed.

“What was that about?” Angela asked. She was sitting at the table with Melody on her lap, a brand new box of chunky crayons and a Disney 101 Dalmatians coloring book on the table in front of them.

“An air force buddy of Nick’s—my brother-in-law—just offered to take me flying.”

“Oh really? Is he on the up and up?”

“Sure. He says Nick called in a favor, and he’s happy to help me get the last flight hours I need.”

Angela gently worked a black crayon out of Melody’s mouth and patiently wrapped the baby's little hand around it, showing her again how to scribble on the paper. “So when are you going?”

“Well, that’s the thing. He’s free this afternoon, but I can’t just take off with no notice.”

“Nah nah nah!” Melody protested, when Angela prevented the crayon from reaching her mouth again.

“Why can’t you? Today would be perfect wouldn’t it? I’m already here. I can stay with the baby.”

Marisol stared out the window, imagining getting behind the controls of a plane on a gorgeous day like this. Picturing the way the sea would sparkle from above, the way the treetops would undulate in the breeze, the landscape unfolding below her like an enormous patchwork quilt. She shook her head softly.

“For one thing, I don’t know how to get in touch with Paul to tell him…and he… well, he doesn’t really like me flying.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t like you flying?”

Marisol gave a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know, he just said now that we have a baby he doesn’t think…” she trailed off, not really wanting to admit that she couldn't do whatever she wanted now because she was engaged.

“Oh I can just picture exactly how that went down.”

“It wasn't a big deal.”

Angela looked at her, a brow arched. “I can completely see him putting his foot down and saying, ‘No, you shouldn’t do that anymore because we have the baby, and by the way, I’m Paul McCartney’.”

Marisol moved Melody’s sippy cup away from the edge of the table before pulling out a chair and sitting down. “It wasn’t like that. He doesn’t tell me what I can or can’t do. We’re not like…” She broke off, thinking about Kim’s husband telling her she couldn’t smoke. She and Paul weren’t like that. He wasn’t controlling or jealous.

“Do you want to go flying this afternoon?” Angela asked.

It was a perfect day for flying. Blue skies, no clouds. A gift from the Universe, really, everything lining up perfectly.

Paul was busy in London, starting work on his movie soundtrack. Angela had driven down from London and was offering to babysit. Who knew when she would get an opportunity like this again?

“More than anything,” Marisol admitted with a sigh.

“Then do it. I have nowhere to be. I’ll stay until you get home.”

Marisol stood and reached in her pocket, her fingers finding the folded piece of paper. Surely Paul wouldn’t mind her getting away for one afternoon. He knew how much she loved flying.

Melody looked up and smiled. “Hi!” she said, opening and closing both hands.

“Hi sweetheart,” Marisol said, ruffling the baby’s hair. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” she said to Angela.

Angela gave Melody a couple of smacking kisses on her plump cheek. “I mind terribly. This baby is going to be such a burden.”

Marisol picked up the phone. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.” Angela leaned over, scooping a couple of crayons off the floor. “You have central heating and I don’t even have to put a shilling in the meter. It’s like I’m on holiday.”

Marisol made the phone call, took down directions to the airfield, and hung up with her stomach fluttering at the thought of getting behind the controls of an airplane again.

“Let’s try a purple one,” Angela said. “The black one is really getting soggy.”

“Don’t let her put the crayons in her mouth.”

“I won’t! Go fly a plane!”

 

It had all the makings of a great day: a plane, a warm autumn afternoon, blessedly clear skies all across southern England.

“Where are we headed?” Marisol asked the instructor.

“Wherever you’d like,” he answered with a smile.

 _Perfect._ She lifted into the blue and headed south toward the coast, following the edge of the Channel toward Eastbourne, Hastings, Dover. She banked to the northwest, close enough to see the cathedral at Canterbury. North toward the estuary, crossing the Thames with the sea on the right and the river on the left. Looking down, Marisol could see the Thames winding upstream and disappearing into the haze of the capital. They crossed Essex and Suffolk, toward the Fens and the Netherlands, just across the sea.

Turning back toward Oxford, Marisol could see puffy clouds now blossoming all over southern England, like dandelions in a field. She had the most joyful half an hour banking the plane right and left, weaving through the fleecy clouds, some of them only a few yards across. It was even more fun sailing right through the bigger clouds, the little jolt when they entered the cloud, then the total white nothing, then flying out the other side and into the world again in an instant.

She smiled at the instructor, who returned the smile and gave her a thumbs-up, which made her think of Paul, and she had a pang of longing for him and wished he could be beside her experiencing this.

She had passed her instrument flight training back in California, so today was the first day she shared a radio frequency with actual airliners arriving in the skies of southeast England from all around the world, and today was the first time she called “London Control.”

Sometimes when she was airborne Marisol liked looking up toward the endless blue vault of sky that had become her playground. But today she found herself spending a good deal of time looking down, caught by the gravity of what—and who—she’d left down below.

 

Driving home, Marisol tried to put into words what it was she loved about flying. It was more than the peacefulness of the cockpit, the feeling of leaving all your problems on the ground.

Flying was like hearing a song you already knew covered by a singer you loved. You knew the song but not sung like this. Airplanes lift you above the streets, rivers and forests you think you know and they become new and more beautiful.

She would never lose the buzz of flying. Every time she took off it felt a bit naughty, as if she was doing something humans shouldn’t really do.

 

Her buzz changed to apprehension the moment she pulled into the driveway and saw Paul’s green Aston Martin parked beside Angela’s little Ford.

By the time she parked and climbed out of the car, Paul was at the front door, holding their daughter, his typically expressive face carefully blank.

She hurried up the drive, waving hello to Paul and the baby. He didn’t return her wave. Her stomach knotted as she swept her gaze over her daughter, looking for bumps or bruises or signs of a flushed face.

“Hi!” Melody said, and babbled something that might or might not be mum mum mum, her face alight with recognition.

“Hi sweetie,” Marisol said, kissing Melody’s cheek, then Paul’s lips. He didn’t move away but he didn’t exactly kiss her back.

“Is everything okay?”

“You tell me,” said Paul, head cocked to one side. With his face next to their daughter’s, Marisol was amazed anew by how much they favored each other.

Over Paul’s shoulder Angela suddenly appeared, mouthing “Sorry!” and practically wringing her hands. So that’s what this was about. Paul thought he was going to make all sorts of noise and make her feel guilty for spending an innocent afternoon pursuing her hobby. _We’ll just see about that._

“How was your day?” she asked tentatively.

“Fantastic. How was your flight?”

Marisol crossed her arms over her chest. How dare he act like she’d done something wrong. “Are you angry that I took a flying lesson, Paul? You seem distressed.”

“Hell yes I’m distressed.” His voice rose. “I rang to ask if you'd like a car to collect you for dinner and Angela refused to tell me where you were. I didn’t know if you’d run off the road in a ditch somewhere or if you were having an affair.”

“An affair? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Is it ridiculous to worry about you now?” He began waving his free hand wildly, a habit when he was frustrated or angry. “Is it ridiculous to realize something is up when I ask your best friend where you are and she says ‘uh..uh…uh…she’s with a friend…’ he made his voice sound all girly at the end, mimicking Angela, who rolled her eyes.

“Sshh. We’re not arguing in front of the baby,” Marisol said, keeping her voice calm even though her heart was racing.

Angela reached for Melody. “Let’s go inside and play with the doggies, sugar pie.”

Paul surrendered the baby to Angela, his eyes never leaving Marisol’s. “Are we keeping secrets from each other now?”

Marisol felt her temper rising. She tried to keep her voice low and even. “First of all, please don’t raise your voice at me in front of our daughter. I grew up with my parents yelling at each other all the time, and believe me, it was no fun.”

He nodded shortly, as if acknowledging her request. He crossed his own arms over his chest, copying her posture.

“And second,” she continued, “I wasn’t keeping anything from you. Nick’s air force buddy called out of the blue and offered to take me up today, and I went. I couldn’t have told you anyway. I never know where you are when you go to London.”

“Did you tell Angela not to tell me?”

“Of course not. It was a spur of the minute invitation and a beautiful day and Angela was here. That's all.”

“Who is this pilot wanker? Do you expect me to believe he wasn’t chatting you up while you’re 10,000 feet off the ground?”

Marisol threw up her hands. “Oh for heaven’s sake. He’s married with kids.”

Paul snorted a laugh. “How is that relevant?”

“He’s old. He's at least 30.”

A tractor rumbled slowly down the lane, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. The noise startled Cookie out from under the lavender bush she’d been sniffing. She gamboled over to Marisol and leaned against her legs, panting up at her. Marisol automatically rested a hand on the dog’s head. “Nick wouldn’t let someone take me flying who wasn’t completely trustworthy and experienced.”

Paul took his time before replying. “I left the bloody studio in the middle of a session because Angela wouldn’t tell me sod all on the phone, so I raced down here like—” He broke off at the sound of a shriek from inside the house.

Both of their heads jerked toward the sound, a natural parental reaction to hearing your child in distress. “I’m going to have to let Angela be on her way, she’s been here most of the day.” Marisol reached for Paul’s hand. “I’m sorry, truly, that I didn’t tell you first.”

His lips tightened. He took his hand from hers and gripped the back of his neck.

Melody continued to shriek.

“I’m going to check on her,” Marisol said.

Inside the house, Melody was squealing and trying to squirm out of Angela’s arms.

“She’s fine,” Angela said. “She got mad when Beau went upstairs. She was crawling all over him and he’d had enough.”

Marisol took Melody’s face in her hands and looked her right in the eyes. “Melody. We do not play rough with the doggies. Love easy!”

Melody didn’t take to being reprimanded, especially not after missing her nap. “Dada!” she sobbed, reaching for Paul, opening and closing her little fists and working herself into a lather, even manufacturing a single tear that slid down her cheek.

Once in Paul’s arms she immediately stopped pretending to cry. Paul placed a series of kisses on Melody’s cheek and Melody made kissing sounds back at him. She laid her head on his shoulder and put her arms around his neck and patted his back. “Dada,” she said.

“Awww,” Angela said, “look at her, she's patting her daddy, do you see that?”

“Well, we pat her constantly,” Marisol reasoned. “It’s what you do with babies.”

“Do you know how I found out?” Paul said, clearly not ready to move on.

He frowned at Angela, who merely shrugged. He turned his frowning face to Marisol. “I’m out in the garden with our daughter wondering who the hell you’re cheating on me with when a little airplane flies low over the house and our baby points at it and says “Mama?”

“Oh sod it.” Angela groaned. “I may have taught her that earlier today…”

“It’s fine,” Marisol said, taking her friend by the arm. “None of this is your fault. Thank you for watching her.”

Apparently finished with the two of them and the conversation, Paul headed up the stairs with Melody babbling and giving him little pats.

 

“I’m sorry!” Angela said again as they stood in the front courtyard saying goodbye.

“Don't worry, he’ll get over it. Nobody did anything wrong. Thank you for watching her, really.”

“I never pegged him as the jealous sort. What’s all this about you cheating on him?”

Marisol shook her head. “I have no idea where that came from.”

Angela climbed in the car and rolled down her window. “We’ll get together next week. I have all early classes, I’m free from lunch on.”

“Come and stay the night with us when you can,” Marisol offered. “It’s nice and warm and I won’t charge you a shilling.”

“Will do.”

Marisol waved until her friend was out of view.

 

Upstairs, Paul and Melody were sitting on the floor in Marisol’s grandmother’s old bedroom, where the dogs liked to hide. Melody was gently patting Beau, who had a beleaguered expression on his face and actually let out a long groan when he saw Marisol come into the room.

“Love easy,” Marisol reminded Melody again. She dropped onto the rug beside Paul.

He wasn’t yelling at her, he wasn’t raging around the house, he just looked weary and disappointed. Disappointed with her.

Marisol sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you’re unhappy with me, but I don’t think there is anything wrong with me taking an afternoon off to go flying.”

“We’re going to have to agree to disagree about that,” he said quietly.

“I just don’t want to feel like I have to answer to you in order to do something that’s so important to me. I understand you’re worried, and I would never do anything risky.”

"It has nothing to do with you answering to me. Planes drop out of the sky all the time. What about that Britannia flight last week that's still all over the news?"

Marisol winced. "That was terrible. It was the altimeter, they're saying--"

Paul brushed off her explanation. "And those were experienced commercial pilots. No one ever plans to crash an airplane. Bad things happen."

"Why do you automatically assume the worst?"

 

Their eyes met. His face was grim. “I lost my mother when I was 14. Do I really have to tell you this?”

She looked away, having no response for that. If he didn’t think flying was safe, there wasn’t a whole lot she could do to change his opinion. The silence grew, broken only by Melody’s babbling and Beau’s long-suffering sighs.

When Melody took Beau’s tail firmly in one fist and tried to bring it to her mouth, Paul intervened. He scooped his daughter up with one arm while Marisol disengaged the dog’s tail from her grasp.

Freed at last from the baby’s amorous attentions, Beau got up and shook himself, tags jingling, and took the chance to amble from the room in search of a less crowded spot to nap. Paul put Melody down and she crawled after the dog. They watched her go, ready to snatch her up again, relaxing when she sat back on her bottom, distracted by a set of colorful stacking cups.

Marisol scooted closer to Paul, their knees touching. She rubbed his shoulder. “Maybe you could go up with me next time. And you’ll see why I love it and you’ll see that it’s safe.”

She could tell by the skeptical look on his face how unlikely that was. He pulled his right knee up and leaned back on his elbows, causing her hand to fall away. He stared toward the window, focused on nothing.

The silence was broken by the clatter from the cups Melody had found. They watched their baby happily waving around the white cup. Melody looked up at them and smiled.

Paul turned to Marisol, his eyes brightening. “What if you bring your horses over? That’s a bit like flying, innit? Only it’s on the ground. Or…we could take a trip to Germany, I’ll let you open up my DB6 on the autobahn. Just like flying.”

“Only way more dangerous!”

“Nah nah nah!” Melody said, chewing on the cup.

Marisol sighed. This conversation would have to wait until after dinner. “She’s hungry. And probably needs changing. Keep an eye on her for a sec?”

Paul nodded. “Of course.”

Marisol came back with a clean diaper and plastic pants and two candles she’d picked up to distract her daughter. In the middle of Grandma Bellamy’s bed, they began their diaper changing ritual: Melody flat on her back, making eye contact and babbling. Marisol picked up a lavender candle, taking a deep sniff. “Mmm. Lavender. Smell it.”

Melody reached both hands out. She brought the candle to her nose and inhaled. Out came her tongue.

“Don’t lick it. Smell it.” Marisol replaced the lavender candle with a cinnamon apple one. “Smell this one. This is apple.”

“Appah,” Melody repeated.

“That’s right. Clever girl.”

The new diaper was in place and Marisol turned her daughter over and gave her a pat on her bottom as she crawled away. “There you are. Good to go.”

She looked up to see Paul standing by the window, gazing over the front drive. “How about dinner? I have some pasta, or some of that tomato soup you like, or—“

When he turned around, he was jingling a set of car keys on a silver ring. “I’m meant to be back in London.”

“Are you serious?” Marisol looked at her watch. “It’s already half past four.”

“Yeah, I know. You were gone all bloody day.”

Marisol swung Melody onto her hip. “You’re going back to the studio this late?”

He shook his head. “I promised Barry and Dunbar I’d meet them at the bookstore after.”

They started down the stairs, a slow process with both dogs winding around their legs, tails wagging, ready for their dinner too.

“What are you doing at the bookstore?”

“Building shelves, painting, whatever. I'm designing their wrapping paper. You can come along if you’d like.”

Marisol thought it over briefly. Melody hadn’t had a nap and needed dinner and their best chance of a babysitter was on her way back to London. “We better not. But what about dinner?”

“I’ll pick something up on my way.”

He was already at the door, waving goodbye, blowing a kiss to Melody, and Marisol felt a stab of disappointment, but she didn’t have time to think about it very long, with the dogs and Melody all clamoring to be fed.

She was giving Melody a bath after dinner when she realized today had been the first time since she’d been in England that Paul had left her without a goodbye kiss.

Later, with Melody tucked in bed and the dogs curled asleep at her feet, She read an Iris Murdoch mystery alone on the sofa but her mind kept wandering. It was after midnight and Paul still wasn’t home when she went upstairs and crawled into bed with her journal. Tonight would be a good chance to catch up on her journaling. She flipped through the pages, scanning her entries for the last week.

 

Sept 11 Sunday:  
_Grandma Bellamy’s birthday. I miss you Grandma, with all my heart. I’d give anything if you were here._

_This morning I was moping around a little (all right, a lot) and Paul went out to get his ciggies and the newspapers and came back with an arm full of forget-me-nots tied with a gold ribbon. And I hadn’t even told him why I was so down! He just knew that I needed cheering up. We made breakfast together and took a long walk with the dogs and he entertained Melody while I went outside and tended the garden, which always makes me happy because I remember how you loved your gardening, and now he’s downstairs tinkering with a song that he wrote when he was 16 but wants to record it now for his dad who is turning 64 this year. It’s frightening sometimes how much I love that man._

 

Sept 12, 9:00  
_Melody’s first check up with new doctor, nurse said “may she always be so perfect.” Just like her daddy. xoxo_

_Stopped by Angela’s after the doctor, and it was so good seeing my number one girl. She was shocked by how much Melody is talking. It’s “Hi! Hi! Hi!” to everyone in the market. I said to Melody “you’re driving me crazy” and she repeated “caykey.” She repeats everything now. She’s quite the little wordsmith (like her daddy)._

_Back to Angela. She was dating a footballer but they’ve broken up. He was gone too much. I wonder if she ever thinks about Neil? It seems like we avoid talking about him. Anyway, Angela is coming down to Sussex on Saturday for a longer visit._

_My new friend Kim called, we’re having lunch this week in London with the babies!_

 

Sept 14, 12:30  
_Had lunch with Kim at a cafe near the zoo. We sat outside with the babies since it was such a beautiful day. Kim’s baby Mandy kept dropping things off the table and saying “Sorry.” I’m convinced the first word an English baby learns is “Sorry.” The English are always wandering around saying “sorry” for things. Even in London. It’s like a polite New York City with better accents._

_Kim brought along a little sketch pad and a handful of crayons, and she drew zoo animals for the babies to scribble on. It kept them happy for over an hour, even though I had to keep taking the crayons out of Melody’s mouth. (She’s teething again). I asked Kim if she’d ever want to work as an artist but she was all humble about it. She’s very talented! If I ever write a children’s book with animals in it, I’ve found my illustrator! I don't have time to write now anyway. Life is moving too fast._

_We met a darling elderly woman named Julita with red shoes and a tiny white fluffy dog. Julita married an English engineer after the war who brought her from Spain and then up and died on her. She told us that the last time she was at the cafe a man had sent over a bowl of chocolate ice cream to her table and she wasn’t sure if it was proper to thank him or not. We discussed it at length, and when it was time for us to go, Kim and I had a bowl of chocolate ice cream delivered to Julita’s table under the guise that it was from the attractive, single elderly gentleman at the corner table. We were pretty proud of ourselves for our matchmaking skills._

_Then we took the babies in their push carts for a stroll around the park. Kim doesn’t say much about her husband, but I don’t say much about Paul either. It’s not that I don’t trust Kim, but who knows, a waiter or customer or passerby could recognize one of us and our conversation could be overheard and end up in a newspaper. It was nice just being two normal girls out for lunch with the babies._

_Except for this one moment when we were outside the cafe, bundling the babies into their push carts, and two women waiting for a bus started pointing at us and whispering. As soon as she noticed, Kim stared right back at the women. “Is something wrong?” she demanded. “No, nothing!” one of the women said, smiling brightly. Then as we walked away we heard them laughing._

_Maybe the women recognized Kim. She was a model before she met Keith. She looks a lot like Pattie. Maybe they thought she was Pattie Harrison. Maybe they were only laughing out of nervousness for being called out by Kim. Other that that bit it was a wonderful day, and Kim and I are going to be good friends, I can tell._

 

Sept 15, 8:00  
_Royal College of Art, AMM with Cornelius Cardew - free-form music performance that Paul just had to see, with only a dozen (?) other people in the audience…Very strange evening indeed. Paul joined in making occasional sounds on the radiator and a beer mug. I thought it would never end. But Paul says you don’t have to like something to be influenced by it._

_We went out for a drink after but fans started to close in and we escaped through the kitchen. Lots of cameras. I’m wondering if I’ll start to be recognized soon._

_Angela watched the baby, must get her a nice present, maybe a visit to a spa??_

 

Marisol tapped her pen against her bottom lip, trying to decide if she wanted to journal about her flying lesson, or if she wanted to simply forget today had ever happened since it had ended with Paul being so upset with her.

She hadn't written about yesterday either. Yesterday they'd driven to London with the baby. Paul said he needed to sign some papers or pick up some mail at Brian's office, but when they got there it seemed he’d only wanted an excuse to show off their daughter. He carried Melody into the office, beaming while the secretaries fussed over her and passed her back and forth and exclaimed how much the baby looked like him. Melody amazed and amused everyone by saying “Hi!” over and over. She could be such a ham. And she didn’t get that from her mother’s side.

“What a delightful surprise!” Brian had said, smiling thinly, his face flushed. He made all the appropriate polite remarks, but Marisol had the distinct impression that Brian was all the while sussing out how he was going to explain Paul’s Love Child to a scandal hungry Fleet Street.

Oblivious to anything but how proud he was of their daughter, Paul had taken Melody to the large windows in Brian's office, looking outside, pointing out things. “That's a double decker bus,” he'd said. “Someday I'll take you on a bus. You'll _love_ London.”

 

Sometimes Marisol caught Paul staring in wonder at their daughter. As if he was amazed by the perfect little model person they'd made. He was a wonderful, proud daddy, and a loving boyfriend. Life was good. _Better than good._

 

She closed her journal with a decisive snap and tucked it between the mattresses. Outside the night was still. Even the insects had stopped their night noises. She looked around the room, trying to decide if she should wait up for Paul. He’d never stayed the night in London alone, not once, since she’d been in England. They hadn't spent a night apart in the last three weeks. Was he really that upset that she'd spent the afternoon flying?

The sky outside was deep blue-black. She checked her watch. It was well after midnight. _Where was Paul?_


	7. Chapter 7

Paul takes another swig of Scotch and rolls it around on his tongue before gulping it down. The girl beside him looks up and flicks her hair, which is long and dark brown and falls nearly to her ass and carries with it the smell of honeysuckle. It reminds him of Marisol’s shampoo. His favorite scent.

His gaze falls to her chest and he idly wonders if her nipples are pink, like Marisol’s, or more brown, like her lips. She licks her lips and smiles at him, a clear invitation in her eyes. She's waiting for him to whisper those three magic words: “Get your coat.” She’ll grin like he’s just given her the keys to a brand new Ferrari. They all want to make it with a celebrity, to have a story to tell their friends.

He sets his empty glass on the table, considering his next move. The pulsing lights of the club, the pounding music and the people buzzing around him—instead of energizing him the way it usually does, this scene has sapped the last of his energy. He wishes he was already home.

He snubs the glowing light from his cigarette until it’s gone and stands up. The girl gets unsteadily to her feet, wobbling a little on her four inch heels. He wonders how old she really is. Nineteen, she’d said, but she looks young.

Every head at the table turns to look at them, but there’s no judgment in their eyes. Peter, John Dunbar, Barry, all sophisticated young Londoners. They know Paul well, expect him to be a playboy, a philanderer, _a cheat_. And why not? As soon as he steps out the door women vie for his attentions, falling all over themselves for the chance to spend a few minutes in his bed. He’d have to be a saint to resist. No one expects him to be a saint.

The brunette (what the hell is her name? Susi? Sandy?) had been miming a striptease on the dance floor in front of their table, and Paul and his mates had drunkenly applauded her efforts. They'd invited the girl and her friends to join them for a drink and the girls happily obliged, thrilled to be let into their circle. This girl was the prettiest of the lot and she’d insinuated herself next to Paul as he'd known she would.

They’d shared a drink or two and a dance and somehow she’d ended up kissing him, and he'd let her for a few seconds, which was entirely the fault of the whisky. Then he'd wagged a finger at her and mumbled some drunken bullshit like “sorry love, I’m taken,” but he’d let her follow him back to the table and he'd bought her and her friends more drinks, and now she expects to go home with him.

She smiles up at him, manicured fingers clutching his arm, and he sees how this night will end. They’ll go back to his house and have slightly drunken sex, and as soon as he has his release he’ll lie there thinking of Marisol and his baby sleeping the sleep of the innocent. He’ll want this girl to leave so he can get back to them, and there will be that familiar wounded look and possibly tears and he’ll find himself explaining to a very young girl the difference between love and sex before packing her into a taxi and sending another crying girl into the night.

She's looking up at him, waiting. What does she want? She wants him to fall in love with her, like the rest of them, but that’s never going to happen, because his heart is taken, _and what the fuck is he doing?_

All he wants right now is to be curled up in bed with his warm, beautiful, sweet smelling fiancee.

He makes a show of slapping his palm on his forehead. “Oh Christ, I’m an idiot. I just remembered. I'm meant to be somewhere, hours ago.” He extricates his arm and struggles into his jacket.

Susi or Sally or Sandy or whoever she is looks confused and hurt.

“Thanks for everything, love. Sorry, I’m an idiot, really. Lads, see you soon.” He gives the signal to Mal, who is immediately on his feet and ready to run interference and whisk him away to a car.

There’s an awkward moment of waiting while the girl fumbles for a pen and a cocktail napkin and thrusts her phone number or some other desperate message into his jacket pocket, and he bids farewell to his mates and hustles out of the club with Mal clearing the way.

“Home?” Mal asks when they get outside in the cool night air. “Yeah,” Paul answers, with only a brief pang of longing for his huge comfortable bed at Cavendish before clarifying, “Sussex.”

In the car on the way out of the city he is reminded of the sick feeling he’d had in the pit of his stomach earlier that afternoon racing along these same roads, trying to suss out where Marisol had gone and why Angela was clearly lying about it. It didn’t help that he’d dreamed last night that Marisol was cheating on him, and he’d woken up in a sweat with his heart pounding followed by a rush of relief that it was only a dream. He’d rolled over and reached for her, only to find her side of the bed cold and empty. How many times does he have to tell his future bride that he wants her to stay in bed beside him until he wakes up?

It’s no surprise he’d dream such a thing, having spent the last few days in the company of Dunbar, who can’t stop whinging about what Marianne has done to him. Bad business, that.

Of course he trusts Marisol. He has no reason not to. But after the third time he rang the house today and Angela still wouldn’t tell him where she was, there was only one obvious answer. She had to be doing something she didn’t want Paul to know about. She had to be having an affair.

He’s seen the way men look at her. You can’t not notice it.

Just last week that plonker Michael Caine had strutted over to their table at Annabel’s and played at being interested in what the Beatles were up to, all the while drooling over Marisol’s lovely long legs. He’d angled for an introduction, and it was as if he was reciting lines from one of his barmy films, fawning all over her with his bullshit about how much he fancied her grandfather. The minute he started quoting lines from Hemingway novels, Paul practically upended the table getting to his feet and saying “sorry mate, but this is our song and I promised my fiancee a dance.” He pulled a surprised and laughing Marisol onto the dance floor where they put on quite a show of whispering and canoodling, in case the wanker was still watching. When they got back to the table, Paul made sure he was seated on the outside where Marisol’s long and shapely legs wouldn’t be on display for anyone but him.

All the way to Sussex today he’d made himself sick with the thought that Marisol had gotten fed up with intrusions into her life by his fans and had met someone who could give her what he never could - anonymity. Or maybe one of her nosey parker girlfriends had told her Paul was cheating, and she’d done it to get back at him.

That was bollocks, of course. He’d been completely faithful to her since they’d been back together. Even though they went weeks without seeing each other he’d been faithful…except for those isolated times on the road, but who could blame him for that?

On stage they were bombarded with adoration for thirty minutes, the biggest rush you could imagine. Then what? Were they supposed to dash back to hotel and stare at the ugly wallpaper for the rest of the night?

When the Beatles were on tour, they were constantly running from girls. And sometimes the girls caught them. And when they caught them, they wanted sex.

There was no courtship. It was “hello” and straight to bed, and then “thanks very much, please turn out the lights on your way out so I can get some sleep.”

Touring was lonely. He’d mooned for Marisol and Melody all across the globe this summer. Falling asleep every night in a strange bed with his arms wrapped around a pillow, imagining whispering in the dark to his pretty blonde bride-to-be. And now with her here, in England, neither of them needs ever to sleep alone again, so why is he even thinking about this? He’s giving himself a headache feeling guilty about it. Not that there’s anything to feel guilty about. Touring is a thing of the past.

Mal makes a tremendous yawning noise, startling Paul out of his reverie. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the headrest. The miles roll by but his brain doesn’t stop, stuck as it is on rationalizing how he spent the summer away from Marisol and his child. Maybe he does feel a little guilty, maybe that’s why his mind had jumped to the conclusion that Marisol had found someone else.

So he’d raced out to Sussex only to find Angela still wouldn’t crack, and then his precious little daughter had looked up at the sky and babbled something, and the lightning bolt hit.

“Is she off flying somewhere or some shit?” Paul had demanded of Angela.

The sense of relief was so great that he wanted to sweep Angela off her feet and kiss her. His pretty baby wasn’t cheating on him, she was merely wanking around in a bloody dangerous toy airplane against his wishes. Then the more he thought about it, the angrier he became that she’d hidden it from him, leading him to believe she was off shagging some anonymous English Literature professor or summat. What sort of relationship was this?

Once he’d established she was safe, he needed to be away from her for a spell to cool his head, have a joint and a pint with the lads. He hadn't gone out with the lads since the tour ended. He deserved a night out. So what if other women were around? None of them could hold a candle to Marisol. He’d known that the day he met her. And he’s just as smitten as the day he met her. More so.

Their breakup wrecked him. He got a few songs out of his misery, but he never wants to go through anything like that again. All in the world he wants right now is to crawl into bed with his girlfriend and crawl inside her warmth, to feel her arms around him, confident in the knowledge there hasn’t been anyone else for her and never will be.

The house in Sussex is dark and sleeping. He fumbles the key in the lock and the dogs make a big pot of noise barking at him and he has to shush them. Upstairs he stops to look at the baby. He rests his hand softly on her head, watches her chest rise and fall, kisses her downy cheek.

He has visited the Acropolis at sunset and the Eiffel Tower at night. He has been to the Louvre, and to the Tate _six_ times. There may be things in this world more beautiful than this baby sleeping, but he has never seen a single one.

 

By the time he stumbles into the bedroom, Marisol is sitting straight up in bed with the bedside lamp on and a frown on her pretty face.

He can’t help smiling. God, she is so pretty and soft looking. His cock twitches to life every damn time he looks at her, especially when she’s all warm and ready in her flimsy little nightgown that will feel so slippery beneath his hands—

“Did you drive home intoxicated?” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest. He realizes he’s been ogling her, which she never seems to enjoy as much as he does.

“Did I wha?” He squints at her in the light of the lamp. “Mal brought me.”

“Where were you? It’s after 2.”

He kicks off his shoes and falls onto the bed beside her and slings an arm across his eyes. So she wants to have a ruckus first, and then have make-up sex. That’s fine with him too. “I wasn’t risking my life in a single engine airplane, that’s for sure.”

He hears her sigh and feels her settle down beside him. “Paul. Is that what this is about?”

“I was at the Scotch. Went for a pint with Mal and Barry and Peter and Dunbar. No big deal.”

“Oh. Just you and the guys?”

The silence goes on for a few seconds as Paul racks his brain, wondering if anyone noticed Jane stopping by their table tonight, if she had been there long enough for it to end up being reported in the gossip columns.

She pokes him in the armpit.

“Cut it out.” He lowers his arm. After a pause, he adds, “Peter’s sister stopped by for a tick.”

Marisol bolts upright. “Are you talking about Jane Asher? Your ex?”

He closes his eyes, huffing. “Calm down. Christ. My head is killing.”

“Get out,” Marisol says calmly.

He opens his eyes and squints at her. “Sorry?”

“Get out of my bed,” she says again, jerking the pillow from under his head and hugging it to her chest.

 _She cannot be serious._ “You cannot be serious,” he says.

“I'm not sleeping with you after you've been out all night carousing with your ex.”

 _Fuck this._ He never should have mentioned Jane. He purposely widens his eyes and gives her his most sincere look. “Marisol. Love. There is not, and never will be again, anything between me and Jane. She can hardly stand to look at me now I’m with you.”

She’s biting her bottom lip, looking near tears. _Fuck._ Why had he mentioned Jane stopping by their table? He isn't thinking clearly after all the drinks and the weed back at the bookstore.

He sits up, reaching for her, but she wriggles out of his grasp. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to reason what specifically she is this riled up about. “C’mon, sweetheart, I should have called, but I figured you’d be asleep. It was no big deal, just a couple pints with the lads.”

“And Jane.”

“I don’t even know why I mentioned it.”

“—and she has taken an interest in the shop you’re working on.”

He scoffs. “Not at all. She was out with some of those pretentious theatre people she runs with. She only stopped by the table to tell Peter about some party he’d been invited to. It was nothing. It’s only…I thought I should mention it…in case it’s in the newspapers.”

“Right. Fantastic.”

“There’s no reason for you to be jealous of Jane. Or anyone, for that matter. I chose you, didn’t I?”

Marisol lies back on the bed, hugging the pillow to her chest, refusing to look at him.

“Besides,” Paul continues, arranging himself close to her, almost touching. “I was only there for Dunbar. He’s in a state right now since his wife left him and their baby and went off shagging the Stones.”

Marisol gives him her skeptical look. “The whole band?”

He nods soberly. “Three of ‘em. But she’s finally settled on Mick.”

She still looks doubtful. “How do you know she shagged three of the Stones?”

“How do you NOT know?”

Marisol rolls onto her side, facing him. “I don’t care who's shagging the Stones. I only care about us. What’s happening to us?”

He sighs. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing is happening to us. We’re just figuring things out, is all. It’s hard.”

She grows quiet. He thinks about kissing her, making his move, but she starts talking again. “Did you stay out late because you were angry that I didn’t tell you I was going flying?”

Oh Christ. Now she’s banging on about flying again.

“No, love. I’m not angry with you about anything. I was only worried. And disappointed that you would keep it from me.”

She stares over his shoulder, not meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t exactly like that. We need to talk about it.”

It’s hard not to groan out loud. He’s far too knackered to get into a ruckus about the flying and all that pish. All he wants is to close his eyes and fall into a dreamless sleep. Sex would help. But he's probably too tired to have sex anyway. What is it his dad always says, that you should never let the sun set on your anger or some shit? So he’ll fix this quickly and they can both get some sleep.

He reaches over and rubs her arm, and she doesn’t pull away. “Let’s get some sleep,” he suggests. “Tomorrow is Sunday. We can spend all day together, just the two…just the three of us. We can talk all you want.”

When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “I’ll make you my famous French toast.”

“In bed?”

“Of course.”

She sniffs. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Can I have a pillow?”

She grabs a corner of the pillowcase and smacks him across the face with it. “There’s your pillow.”

 _Jesus_. She really is narked about him staying out late. He heaves a sigh, plumps the pillow and arranges himself on his side, trying to find a comfortable position in the world’s most uncomfortable bed. He watches her expression as she settles herself, and he wonders how much nattering on about flying they'd have to do before she'd have sex with him tonight. Fuck it, his eyelids are about to close.

“Turn off the light,” she demands, even though she is nearest.

He stretches across her to turn out the light and brushes his lips against her shoulder. Her body stiffens, and he sighs and settles back on his pillow. “Goodnight love.”

This will be the first night he can remember when they’ve fallen asleep together without making love.

There is a lot of shifting about and sighs in the dark, neither of them close to falling asleep for several long minutes.

Then she flicks on the light again and rolls over toward him and he instinctively opens his arms. She rests her head on his shoulder. Their faces are inches apart. “Hi baby,” he says, grateful that she’s been the one to initiate the make-up sex. He licks his lips, staring at her pretty mouth.

“Hi,” she says, but instead of kissing him, she starts talking. Again. More and more words. Christ. Maybe he is too tired for sex after all.

“I’ve been thinking,” she’s saying. “If my flying lessons worry you that much, it isn’t worth it. I don’t want to lose how we are, the way we can't keep our hands off each other and laugh all the time about everything.”

“I promise I'll never stop laughing at you.”

He can tell she's trying not to smile. “Be serious now.”

“We’re fine, baby, I promise we are. We're better than fine.”

She nods, looking uncertain. The movement of her head causes her hair to slide over her shoulder. Her hair is getting longer now, thicker. The way it slides over her skin makes him want to gather it into his fist and fuck her over the side of the bed. It’s been forever since they’ve done anything as rough as that. Weeks even.

He reaches out, uses his thumb to move a strand of hair off her face. He slides his hand over her hair, digging his fingers into its silky softness.

“Look, I don’t want to keep you from doing what you want to do, necessarily. Just tell me next time before you run off, will you?”

“I will. But I was worried too, when you stayed out so late.”

“It's not worth losing your sleep over. All I did was drink a few and pine for you. You know I've never loved anyone the way I love you.”

She brushes her thumb across the scar on his upper lip and stares deeply into his eyes. “Do you mean it?”

“Absolutely.” He nods soberly. “The only woman I've ever come close to loving this much was the American woman I saw demonstrating the hula hoop at Harrods when I was thirteen. But that was long before I met you. I never think about her.”

She pulls her lip between her teeth, trying not to smile, a losing battle. She starts to laugh, which means her knickers will be off in no time. He loves the way he can make her laugh. The way she gets his silly humor. The way she gets _him_. He cups his hand behind her head and pulls her lips to his. They kiss, the kiss of familiar lovers. His hands begin to roam all over her body. He knows how she likes to be kissed, how she likes to be touched.

Their sex life has been better than ever since she's moved to England. It's no longer the frantic fumbling of new partners. He's not in a hurry to get off before she leaves again. They have all the time they need. He knows what she likes, what makes her lose it. He knows all about clitoral stimulation now, and not just from his mother’s medical books. His mind is frenzied with thoughts of pushing her legs to her chest, biting his way down her body, sucking the sweetness between her legs until she screams so loud it shakes the walls. Thank god their baby, once she falls asleep, could be laid next to a brass band and not wake up. He tells himself to slow down, let Marisol come to him tonight. She’s the one who ran off this afternoon, after all. She still has some making up to do.

Her fingers trail down his chest, working at the buttons of his shirt, finally resting on the buckle of his belt.

“You still have your clothes on.”

“It seemed a lot of effort.”

“I'll help you,” she says softly, and he smiles a response. The look on her face incapsulates everything he loves about this girl. Lust and love, innocence and anticipation, and something sweeter than pure sugar. Watching the emotions flit across her face while he makes love to her is one of his favorite highs.

“Turn out the light,” she says.

“I think we’ll leave it on this time,” he says.

She sighs and tucks her face into his neck, sucking the skin just below his ear as she fumbles with his belt. He breathes in her warm sleepy girl smell and his whirring brain begins to slow for the first time all day. Every inch of her is soft and warm and inviting. The feel of her full breasts pressed against his bare chest is like a spiritual experience. “You feel good,” he mumbles.

His lips find hers and they kiss again. His belt hits the floor wooden floor with a clang. More clothes come off. He doesn't take his mouth off hers as he rolls on top of her. He’s flooded with relief at the knowledge that Marisol hasn’t cheated on him, satisfaction that she is all his. No one else will kiss these sweet full lips, hear her hungry, gasping little noises. His emotions are everywhere, just like his hands. Sliding down her thigh, grasping the back of her knee and pulling her leg up and around them. The position makes them both gasp for air. “Paul,” she says between kisses. He could listen to her breathe out his name like that for eternity.

She whispers that she loves him, that she missed him all day, that she needs him lying next to her to be able to sleep soundly. He listens to her words and his heart feels so big that he wonders how his chest can contain it.

And he knows it in his bones. This girl. She is it for him. She is the one he wants to fall asleep with and the one he wants to wake up with. Wherever this girl is, in whatever tiny uncomfortable bed she chooses to sleep in, that’s where he belongs. She is his home.


	8. Chapter 8

On Sunday morning, like most mornings, Marisol awoke to the sound of her baby chattering to herself in her cot. The air in the bedroom was chilly, and she wondered if they’d left a window open somewhere. Paul was snuggled against her back, one arm heavy across her breasts. It was tempting to stay where she was, enjoying his warmth, but her brain had already started listing all the things she could get done before he woke up and wanted her attention, so she slipped out from under his arm and swung her legs out of the bed.

The floor was cold so she grabbed a pair of socks along with the navy kimono Paul had brought her from Japan. Cookie was at the door, her back end wiggling, excited to see Marisol and probably glad her shift was over. Cookie was a herding dog and wanted a job to do, and since they’d been in England she’d decided her job was to watch the baby sleep. In the mornings Melody would wake up and see the dog and they’d have twenty minutes or so of one-sided conversation before she realized she was wet and hungry and wanted out of her cot. If she got impatient enough and a parent hadn’t appeared yet, Cookie would come to their bedroom door and whine.

Melody was standing up, holding onto the rails of her cot. She made an excited gurgle when she saw Marisol. “Ow ow ow!” she demanded.

“Out?” Marisol clarified.

“Ow!” Melody reached up and Marisol lifted her warm baby, cuddling her close. Mornings had become her favorite time of day. Quiet time with her baby and later on snuggling with her handsome fiancé. Life was good.

She grabbed a hand mirror from the bathroom on the way downstairs and handed it to Melody when they reached the sofa. Melody examined herself intently while Marisol changed her diaper.

“See Melody?”

“Mem mee,” the baby responded, her voice a little husky with sleep.

“Melody is a very clever girl who’s going to grow up to make the world a better place and do loads of volunteer work and be kind to animals. And be happy,” she added as an afterthought.

“Memmie nah nah nah an anah,” Melody said.

“Is that what it sounds like I'm saying?” She finished the diapering and gave Melody’s bottom a pat. The dogs were clicking around the room, ready to be fed and let outside. On days when the weather cooperated, Marisol would make tea and toast and slice some fruit and she and the baby would have breakfast outside while the dogs sniffed around the garden. It was chilly today so they ate at the kitchen table with the door ajar so they could watch the dogs.

“Skuh!” Melody said, pointing out the door.

“Squirrel,” Marisol said. “Say squirrel. The American way. Your daddy can’t say it right.”

“Dada,” Melody said.

“Mmm hmm. Daddy is English, and he says some words funny. Like squirrel.” She refilled Melody’s juice. “Daddy will say the English invented the language and the Americans desecrated it. We don't pay any mind to that nonsense.”

This was how their morning conversations went. Marisol would drone on and on about whatever took her fancy and Melody would listen, now and then repeating a word that she recognized, her favorite of which was daddy.

“Dada,” Melody said, with an angelic smile. She pointed at the kitchen doorway. “Dada!”

“Yes, I know, Dada is wonderful. Let’s let him sleep a little longer so he won’t be grouchy.” Marisol took a sip of tea. “Daddy had a late night,” she whispered, as if imparting a secret.

Melody leaned forward, showing undisguised interest. If you want to get someone’s attention, don’t shout— whisper, Marisol thought. It even works with babies.

After breakfast Marisol slipped on her canvas espadrilles and shoved Melody’s feet into tiny white leather shoes and they both donned sweaters and wandered around the foggy garden with the dogs and hunted for more red squirrels in the trees.

“Your great grandma used to say the grey squirrels were brought from North America and they’re horrible pests. We’re looking for the little English squirrels, like Squirrel Nutkin and Tufty. Look up in the trees.”

“Tee?” Melody said, pointing to a small pile of yellow and orange leaves.

“Close,” Marisol said. “You’re such a clever girl.”

Melody’s cheeks were rosy and her nose was cold when Marisol returned her to her cot with her favorite baby doll and Miss Periwinkle the fuchsia elephant and an assortment of stuffed animals and a couple of Little Golden books. That should keep her busy. “Watch the baby,” she told Cookie.

Cookie sat next to the cot, panting softly at Melody, close enough that the baby could reach a hand through the bars and just touch a furry ear or a wet nose.

Marisol brushed her teeth and washed her face and hung the kimono on a peg inside the bathroom door. In the bedroom, Paul slumbered on. No fetal position for him. He slept stretched out, as if even in sleep he was ready to take charge and create adventure. One of his arms was wrapped around her pillow, making him look cuddly. Marisol tiptoed across the room and crawled into bed. Paul made the biggest deal about her being in bed beside him when he woke up. It was nearly ten, time he woke up anyway.

She snuggled against him, slowly running her hand over his chest, watching him come awake.

He groaned and grimaced and blinked open his eyes, focusing on her. “Morning, baby.” He tightened his arms around her.

“Morning,” Marisol said, trying to sound like she’d just woken up herself.

“Hi baby. You smell like a candy mint.”

He rolled onto his side and wrapped his leg around hers, the sole of his foot sliding down her calf to her ankle. “Why are you wearing socks?”

“It’s cold.”

“You got out of bed to brush your teeth and put socks on?”

“Yep. That’s what I did.”

“Mmm. You're industrious this morning.” They cuddled for a few seconds, and then the fingers of Paul's left hand started tapping out an unconscious rhythm on her shoulder. Once he awoke, he was rarely still. He rolled away, and she couldn’t help noticing the definition in his arms as he stretched them overhead.

“I need a pee,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed, and she immediately missed his warmth.

He’d soon be back, smelling of toothpaste and wanting to make love. Not a bad way to start the day. And it always put him in a good mood. Marisol rolled onto her back, wriggling her toes, listening to the water running and feeling quite pleased with her life today. She lay there waiting and thinking in the quiet gray blue light suffusing the bedroom. The sun seemed so much softer here than in California. Sometimes she missed California, but there was so much to like about her life right now, right here.

Last night was only a blip on the radar, she told herself. Why would Paul choose to spend time in a smoky London nightclub filled with fake people grabbing at him when he could be here in their cozy country cottage with their big English garden and a refrigerator full of food and all the love he could possibly want? It had been nerve wracking not hearing from him last night, but he came home to her and explained where he’d been and she knew he adored her, she could see it in his eyes.

Just a few nights ago she’d been curled up on the sofa, engrossed in one of her novels. She’d looked up to see Paul sitting on the other end of the sofa, his hands stilled on the guitar, watching her with a look of pure contentment. When they’d locked eyes he’d put down the guitar and moved towards her, wrapping himself around her body, breathing softly into her skin.

What are you doing?” she’d asked him, bemused.

“I’m just enjoying you,” he’d said. “Appreciating you.” He’d looked at her with those shining dark eyes. In that moment, they were her whole world.

She remembered a conversation she’d once had with her grandmother, in this very house. “Watch their eyes,” Grandma Bellamy had said, when they were talking one day in the garden about relationships and love.

Marisol had immediately thought of the effect Paul’s eyes had on her, the way they could move her, the colors of his iris stirring hypnotically. But that wasn’t what Grandma Bellamy meant.

“The way a man’s eyes watch you, they way his eyes lock on yours, is an indicator of his love for you,” Grandma Bellamy finished. The depth of his gaze, the intensity of his expression, all revealed unspoken secrets, according to Marisol’s grandmother.

Marisol remembered last night, lying breathless after sex, how she’d turned to see Paul’s enraptured expression, his eyes burning with passionate fervor and an almost fierce affection. It’s in his eyes.

 

“Are you ready for me?”

Paul stood in the doorway, in all his naked glory, arms overhead gripping the door frame.

“Umm…”

Before she could answer he sprinted across the room and dove onto the bed, like she knew he would. She rolled away just before he landed on her. He chased her across the bed, grabbing at her, tickling and wrestling and growling like a tiger and rubbing his scratchy beard across her bare stomach while she tried to shush him and tried not to laugh. If Melody heard them in here giggling or having any sort of fun she would insist on getting out of her cot.

So they made love slowly and quietly, and when it was over Paul reached for his first cigarette of the day and they talked about their plans.

“I think we’ll go to the beach today,” he announced.

“Have you looked outside? It’s foggy.”

“Not at the shore. Besides, the weather will keep the crowds away. I want to take Mel to the beach where I first met you.”

Marisol smiled at the memory. That wasn’t exactly how it went down. They’d met at Neil Aspinall’s grandmother’s house, just down the road, and Paul had insisted she join them at the beach. Either way, it had been a day she would never forget.

She smiled at him, thinking how much he’d changed. From a boy fresh from the provinces trying to prove himself, into a handsome, sophisticated Londoner who had the world by the tail with a downhill drag.

He read her thoughts. “Could you ever have imagined we’d end up where we are now, only three years later?

“Not in a million years,” Marisol admitted. She sat up, her ears tuned to her daughter. “Melody wants out.”

This was how their days began. They’d make love, then get dressed and snuggle with Melody for a few minutes, then Marisol would go downstairs and turn the kettle on and Paul would don a hat and run out for smokes and the newspapers and another day in England would begin.

Marisol climbed out of bed and picked up the clothes Paul had worn yesterday and tossed them to him. “Do you want me to pack a picnic lunch?”

He didn't answer. He studied his cigarette. His lips were moving but no sound came out. Marisol sighed. He did that frequently, and then he'd look for a pencil and paper and jot something down, always writing in his head.

“Do you want anything in particular for lunch?”

He still didn't answer. He was fumbling with the portable tape recorder he kept beside the bed, humming something into it. The next Beatles number one hit, she presumed. While the world waited in breathless anticipation. With that sort of responsibility on his shoulders, he couldn’t be expected to answer mundane questions about lunch food. She’d figure it out on her own.

*****

 

“She’s afraid to walk on sand,” Marisol announced, setting Melody down at the edge of the wooden boardwalk access to the beach.

“No she isn’t,” Paul said.

“You'll see.”

Paul had his hands full with his Leica and his new Polaroid camera and his 8mm movie camera and a small picnic basket and a mysterious brown paper package. His prize possession required a second trip to the car—a portable battery operated Philips record player, imported from Amsterdam. Nobody had them, except for one of Paul’s new socialite friends in London. Now they could take their music along with them and dance and sing along whenever the mood struck. In the park, at the beach, even in the car using the hifi system installed in the Aston Martin, until Paul hit the brakes suddenly and the needle screeched across the record and temporarily ruined their bliss.

Marisol spread a blanket on the sand a few yards from the boardwalk and called to her daughter. “Come here Melody.”

Paul passed by with his precious Philips player. “Come on baby girl, you can do it.”

He set up the record player on a nearby bench and picked up the package. “Let’s see what October brings.”

Marisol rolled over on her stomach, her chin in her hands, watching her fiancé. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning, practically bouncing with anticipation.

“My friend Tara told me about this service, for only 38 pounds a month we can get newest releases shipped over from America.”

“38 pounds a month?”

“It’s a bargain, Mar. We all do it now, George, John, Ritchie. We get to hear all the new stuff before it’s even on the radio.”

He held up the first LP. “Ever hear of the Monkees?”

Marisol lowered her sunglasses. “No, but that’s a great concept for a cover photo, if it hadn’t already been done by the Beatles, over three years ago.”

He nodded. “I read about these blokes in the music papers. Not sure if they’re a band or a television show about a band. We’ll give it a spin.”

He rifled through the box. “We’ve got Simon and Garfunkel and Otis Redding, the latest by Smokey…” He pulled out a stack of 45s and held up one that caught his attention. “This cat looks born to sing the blues. Shall we chance a bit of Percy?”

The music started and Paul joined Marisol on the blanket and took a swig from her bottle of Fanta. “Can I ask why you left our daughter at the edge of the sand?”

“Because she needs to learn to conquer her fears.”

Several yards away, Melody stood babbling to herself on the edge of the boardwalk holding her baby doll in one hand, waiting patiently for one of her parents to come and get her.

“That’s mean.”

“She’ll thank us one day when she’s able to walk on the beach with her own children.”

“Have you ever seen black sand?” Paul asked. “The first time I saw black sand was in Tenerife. We were staying at Klaus Voormann’s parents’ place. It had no electricity, we were roughing it. George and Ringo got sunstroke. And I got caught in a rip tide and nearly drowned.”

“How did you get back in? Did you know to swim parallel to the shore?”

“Where were you when I needed you, little Miss California? I finally figured that out just before I went under for the final time.”

“I’m awfully glad you survived. No wonder our daughter is afraid of the beach.”

A pair of gulls wheeled overhead, squawking, and Melody squinted up at the sky and made the sound of a bird.

“How does the bird go, Melody?” Paul gave a first rate sea gull imitation.

“Impressive.” Marisol turned to her daughter. “Come here sweetheart, I have sunnies for you.” She waved a pair of baby sunglasses, trying to make them look tantalizing.

Ignoring both of them, Melody babbled away, now and then looking down at her little white shoes, as if to be sure they were safely on the wooden planks and not in the white sands of danger.

Marisol began telling Paul about a family vacation in Hawaii when she was twelve. Her mother had bought a Back Roads Maui guide book and insisted they visit a secluded red sand beach. After hours of driving on unpaved roads, they found the original trail had been erased by a landslide. They had to traverse a challenging downhill trail made of loose cinders and pine needles, and there were several points where a slip could result in a catastrophic fall into the sea below. Marisol’s father was fit to be tied by the time they rounded a corner and saw the jaw-dropping view. Earthy red cliffs towering above a deep maroon-sand beach, and swimmers bobbing in a turquoise blue lagoon.

The beach was breath-taking. It was also clothing optional.

“I think that was the day I saw my first penis,” Marisol mused. “Penises, I should say. There were many, many penises. And nipples everywhere. Some of them sun burned.”

“I can’t believe Marlene took you to a nude beach.” Paul sounded amused.

“Well. As soon as Marlene saw the first penis she took Margo and me by the hand and started to march us right back up the cliff, but my father started railing at her. ‘We were nearly killed getting here, Marlene. We’re getting a god damned family photo, and we’re all going to look god damned happy about it,’ is what he said, nearest I can remember."

Paul threw back his head and laughed.

“So we have that photo in a frame on our fireplace mantel, and when I see it I can still visualize the naked teenager my father gave the camera to, standing there grinning with all his dangly bits out in full view while he photographed us, and Margo and I were giggling like lunatics.”

“I’d love to see that photo,” Paul said, reaching for her Fanta. He nodded his head at the record player. “Have you been listening to this song? It’s bloody amazing.”

He started the record at the beginning and held out a hand to pull Marisol to her feet. “Mel, we’re dancing in the sand,” he called to the baby. “Come join us.”

Melody was having a conversation with her baby now, and she had no intention of stepping in any sand. She stood there looking down and talking to her doll, refusing to even look at her parents.

“When a man loves a woman, can’t keep his mind on nothin’ else…” Paul began to sing along with the opening. “Jesus, this song is incredible.” He pulled Marisol into his arms and they danced barefoot in the sand to one of the most beautiful songs either of them had ever heard. When it was over, he kissed her and told her it was their new favorite song.

He was starting it over for the third time when Marisol joined him at the record player. A yellow disc with a maroon label was on top of the other 45s. Marisol picked it up, reading the song title. “Did you really pay someone to ship “Good Day Sunshine” back to England for you?’

“You never know what you’re going to get, Mari, but that one just happened to be already in the record player.”

“This is Melody’s favorite song from _Revolver_. When we get to this song she starts to dance, and she squawks when another song comes on.” Marisol turned around. Melody was talking to her doll, her voice sounding more and more strident.

“Listen to her. She sounds so bossy sometimes with her doll.”

“She gets that from you,” Paul said matter-of-factly.

“She does not. I do not sound bossy.”

Paul merely raised an eyebrow and closed his lips.

Marisol shook her head and tried to ignore him. “Melody! What’s your favorite song?”

“Goo goo goo,” Melody said without looking up.

“You heard her,” Marisol said, handing him the disc. “‘Good Day Sunshine.’ She even has a little dance to it.”

Naturally Paul had to see this for himself, so he started the record and went to stand by Melody on the boardwalk. “Show me how you can dance, Mel.”

Melody needed no encouragement to dance to her favorite Beatles song. She hopped and sang and waved her baby doll. When touching the ground was mentioned she leaned down and brushed the wooden plank with her index finger, and when lying beneath the tree was mentioned she started to lie down but seemed to change her mind when she noticed all the sand on the boardwalk. Otherwise she hopped and slowly gyrated, which was her way of dancing and letting her parents know that she feels good. In a special way.

“I’m so proud to know that she is mine!” Paul sang along with himself, stooping down and ruffling Melody’s hair.

The song ended and Melody squawked like Marisol warned she would.

“I can’t take this, Mel,” Paul said, sadly shaking his head. “You’re part of the family. You can’t stand over here alone all day. Come and sit with us on the blanket.”

“I told you,” Marisol said from the blanket.

Paul knelt in the sand a few feet in front of Melody. “Hey Mel.”

Melody looked up and grinned. “Hi Da.” She waved the way she'd been taught, opening and closing her fist, but her hand was turned the wrong way so it looked like she was saying hi to herself.

“Come here baby girl.” Paul held out his arms.

Melody held one shoe over the sand, then drew it back again. She looked up and grinned and pointed at Paul and said “Da!”

Paul sighed and got to his feet. Taking Melody by the hands, he lifted her off the boardwalk and held her over the sand. Melody drew her legs up to her stomach. When Paul lowered her to the sand, she dropped all the way onto her bottom, refusing to stand. As soon as he let go of her hands she crawled back up onto the wooden planks. Paul sighed again and picked her up and carried her to their blanket, where she sat on his lap all through lunch, leaving Marisol to play DJ.

By mid-afternoon the sun had broken through the clouds, and their once secluded stretch of sand began to fill with beachgoers. Paul was wearing one of his foolproof disguises - a San Francisco Giants knit beanie and shades, so Marisol wasn’t expecting him to be recognized, but when he came back from carrying the picnic basket to the car he told her to pack up her things and get Melody in the car and be quick about it.

The DB6 had drawn a crowd, and understandably so. It was a fine little firecracker, handsome, elegant and posh. They should have driven her grandmother’s Mini. But then they wouldn’t have been able to use the reel-to-reel tape recorder mounted in the dashboard or drive nearly as fast on the way down to the beach.

If Paul was expecting to be mobbed while packing up his cameras and record player, he must have been surprised by the complexion of the crowd surrounding his Aston Martin. It was largely teenage boys who wanted to talk about James Bond’s DB5 in _Goldfinger_. They wanted to know if Paul had machine guns in the front fenders, an ejector seat, tire slicers in the wheels and other handy accessories.

A pair of teenage girls who looked like sisters eventually recognized Paul despite his disguise, and he leaned out the window and signed a couple of autographs before squealing away, leaving a crowd of jealous teenage boys in his wake.

They drove out of the beach area, farther up the coastline, the road climbing higher and offering spectacular sea views. Eventually Paul saw a safe place to pull in where his posh car wouldn’t be seen from the road, and they got out to admire the view and take a few photographs. There was a path leading down to the beach, and Paul couldn’t resist taking it.

Marisol spread the blanket in the shade of the cliffs and watched while Paul carried Melody to the edge of the ocean, pointing out shells and seabirds and something black and shiny bobbing on the waves. A seal? She couldn’t see much from where she was sitting, but no matter. It was lovely having a few minutes of alone time. She took her journal and a pen out of her bag and started to write.

Melody was rubbing her eyes and yawning by the time Paul carried her back, and in minutes she was asleep on the blanket under his grey wool jacket.

Gulls mewed like kittens, wheeling through the sky. The waves relentlessly pushed in and out on the count of three. With her daughter asleep beside her, Marisol felt utterly content and relaxed. Unlike Paul.

He strolled the beach, never still, turning cartwheels, splashing in tide pools, gathering pieces of driftwood and slinging them back into the waves. He turned and looked at her, shielding his hand against the glare of the setting sun behind her. He picked up another piece of driftwood and seemed to be carving something into the sand. Afternoon shadows crawled out behind him.

He ran back to the blanket, peered at the baby, and stooped to give Marisol a quick salty kiss. She hugged her journal to her chest, smiling at his antics. He picked up his Polaroid instant camera and was off again, scrambling up the trail behind her, crawling through scrub studded with yellow flowers and sculpted the same shape by the unrelenting ocean breezes.

When he came back, all flushed and winded, he was shaking a photograph, examining it as it developed. Satisfied, he handed it to Marisol. There on the sand in front of her, photographed from his vantage point above and behind her, were the words he’d carved into the sand.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Her heart filled wit happiness. She smiled up at him. “I’ve already said yes.”

He dropped down beside her on their blanket. He picked up her left hand and gently rubbed his thumb across her diamond solitaire. “You’ve said yes. You haven’t said when. I’m asking when.”

“You want to set the date?”

“Yes, love. We need to make plans. People are asking.”

“What people?”

He shrugged. “Brian, my mates. My press officer. _Especially_ my press officer. And your father.”

Marisol drew in a breath. “When did you talk to my father?”

“Never mind. He has a right to be concerned about his baby girl. I would be. Anyway, we have to tell the press something, and soon.”

“Right,” Marisol said. She bit her lip and looked out at the ocean, squinting in the salt sting of the breeze. There were too many thoughts flooding her brain right now to be able to look at Paul.

“What sort of wedding were you thinking?” he asked.

Marisol shrugged a shoulder, feeling suddenly awkward. Why did she feel this rush of nervousness? She adored this man like no other. She happily got naked with him as often as possible. She had no qualms about any of the multitude of creative activities they got up to in bed. They shared their intimate thoughts, they could talk about anything. Why did butterflies dance a tango in her stomach at the mention of the word wedding?

“I don’t know if we can manage a big wedding,” Paul was saying. “Too many people involved, the media would hear of it and it would be a circus.”

“I don’t need a big wedding. I want my family to be here though,” Marisol said finally.

“What about Christmas time? Aren’t they all coming over at Christmas? You said they didn’t want you to have to make the trip with the baby, so soon after Thanksgiving.”

She nodded. It was true. Christmas was a little over two months away, and all her family would be in London. A Christmas wedding. _In two months._ Her mind spun at the thought of it.

“A Christmas wedding,” she said aloud, with her brightest smile aimed at her handsome fiancé.

They kissed, briefly, because Paul seemed full of words. “I’ll tell Brian. He’ll want Tony to release a statement. We’ll probably have to do some sort of press conference—“

“Do we have to do that right now?” Marisol interrupted, feeling on the verge of panic. It would be a scandal when the press, _when the world_ , found out they had a baby and weren’t yet married. “Can’t we wait until after the wedding?”

Paul frowned. “I think it would be better to get on top of the situation, love.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but it’s been so nice staying in Sussex where nobody has found us, and once you make an announcement there will probably be reporters at my door.”

“You have a point.” He sighed and squeezed her knee. “I’ll talk to Bri.”

He slid his arm around her shoulders and she leaned her head against him, her mind reeling. Two months. _They would be married in two months._

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She tucked her journal into her bag and got to her feet.

At the shoreline, she picked up a piece of driftwood and below Paul’s question she carved her answer into the sand. “YES YES YES” she wrote, to alleviate any doubts anyone might have. She held her wind tangled hair off her face and turned to wave at him. He was hidden in the shadows of the cliff behind him as the sun set in the west. Another day ending in England.

She turned back to the sea, staring in the opposite direction of America. This was her home now, this foggy island off the coast of continental Europe.

In a few short months she would be Mrs. Marisol McCartney. Just the thought almost made her weak in the knees. She’d better get used to it though, because this man she’d fallen in love with was arguably one of the most famous men in the world.

She’d better get used to the idea of living in London with him and a cadre of strangers staring at her and pointing at her and practically living outside her home. She’d need to get used to her every move being fodder for strangers to read about as they drank their morning coffee and ate their toast. Total strangers who would judge her and form opinions about her, love her or hate her, without ever crossing paths with her.

She thought about the journal entry she’d just written, about her baby standing on the wooden boardwalk, utterly focused on her little white shoes. Not trusting to step off the path that she knew into the scary expanse of the unknown, even though the two people she loved and trusted most in all the world were only a few steps away. _She’s a little like me,_ Marisol realized.

With that thought in mind, she turned around and started walking back through the sand to the two loves of her life.

 

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	9. Chapter 9

“It’s L day!” Paul announced, before his feet even hit the floor.

“For love?” Marisol wondered aloud, trying to keep up with his train of thought at nine o’clock in the morning.

“Naturally. And for London. Mr. Martin is on me arse about the movie soundtr—Shit! Fucking hell!” He fell back onto the bed, grabbing his left foot. “Christ, Mari. Why is there a ham bone beside the bed?”

“Beau! Come and get your bone!” Marisol yelled. “So we’re going to London?”

“The music papers come out on Thursdays and the sun is shining,” Paul explained on his way to the bathroom, carefully avoiding the hambone and various other dog and baby toys. “You and Mel can go to the park while I work. And if Angela can babysit I’ll take you out tonight.”

A quiet, sunny day in the city, Marisol thought, sounded perfect. It would be their new home soon. Time to learn her way around London.

*

Even though Paul had been to his London home only a few times since the tour ended, the fans continued their vigil. Marisol counted eight girls waiting outside the Cavendish gates. Several of them held flowers and at least two looked like they’d been crying.

Shrieks went up when he pulled the Aston Martin into the drive and swung open the car door. “SHHHH!” Paul commanded. “Why do you have to do that?”

“Paul!” one of the girls wailed, “they said you were in a car crash!”

“Who said that?”

“Everyone! Because no one has seen you around!”

“That’s ludicrous.” The girls swarmed around him, thrusting pens and autograph books his way, asking for photos and batting their eyelashes. All except for one tall girl, who looked a little older than the rest—she came around to Marisol’s side of the car and tapped on the window.

Ignoring the girl, Marisol tightened her arms around Melody. She wasn’t about to open the window and answer this stranger’s questions. After all, Maureen said she had her face scratched by a fan while waiting in a car for Ringo, and Pattie and Cynthia had all sorts of fan horror stories.

On the other side of the car, Paul addressed a tiny blonde with a pixie cut. “I haven’t seen you here before, have I? What’s your name?”

“Helga,” said the girl, with stars in her eyes.

“Where are you from, Helga?”

“Duetschland.”

“Was bringt dich nach England?” Paul said, smoothly switching to German.

“Weil ich dich liebe,” she said, and Paul laughed.

 

A middle-aged woman dashed up and pointed a finger at Paul. “These people in front of your house are here all hours of the night whether you’re here or not. Last night they were singing at half past eleven.”

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, Ma’am.” Paul gave her a contrite smile which she ignored.

“I’ll phone the police next time. This is a nice neighborhood!”

“Yes. Yes it is.” Paul addressed the fans. “Girls, you have got to stop singing in the middle of the night.”

“It wasn’t us.”

“We had to take the last bus home.”

“It was Annie and that lot.”

“Tell Annie that I said to stop making noise at night. Or any time. This is a nice neighborhood.”

The neighbor threw her hands in the air. “Next time I’m phoning the police.”

“Sorry, Ma’am. I’ll tell them to keep it down.”

Paul wagged his finger at the girls. “See, now you’ve gotten me in trouble with the neighbors.”

“We thought you’d died. Everyone said you crashed your car. We were singing sad songs and everyone was crying.”

“I thought you weren’t even here,” Paul pointed out.

There was so much giggling and coquettishness going on that Marisol nearly rolled her eyes.

“We’ve brought you flowers.” Several of the girls held up bouquets to illustrate.

Paul opened the driver’s side door. “Since I’m still alive, how about you give them to my lovely girlfriend?”

Marisol tried to catch his eye and shake her head no, but Melody suddenly started to chuckle and lean toward the passenger door. The teenager on Marisol’s side of the car was acting out the “itsy bitsy spider” song, with her thumbs hooked together and her fingers crawling up the glass. When she saw she had Marisol’s attention, she motioned for her to roll down the window.

Marisol rolled the window down a few inches.

“I was wonderin’, will ye be needin’ a nanny?” the girl asked, in a lilting Irish accent.

“Um…I’m not sure,” Marisol said, caught off guard.

“My name’s Mary Walsh. I’ve been to nanny school.”

Paul was back inside the car, with an arm full of flowers, and the teenager stepped away as Paul screeched into the courtyard.

“Here you are, love. I’ve got some flowers for you. See, my fans aren't all bad.”

“Do you really have to flirt with them so much?”

Paul looked at her like she’d just started speaking Gaelic. “Flirt with them?”

“Forget it.” Marisol handed Paul the baby and gathered up the flowers before they scratched his luxurious leather seats.

The phone was ringing as soon as Paul unlocked the front door, which was unusual because he had a new number that not many people knew. “Can you get that, love?” Paul said, busying himself with a large stack of mail on the dining room table. “If it’s Mr. Martin, say you haven’t seen me.”

Marisol answered the phone in the front room. She listened for a few seconds, then covered the mouthpiece and stage whispered across the room, “It’s Tony Barrow. Have I seen you?”

“The fuck does he want?” Paul set Melody on the floor and she immediately toddled under the table. He took the phone and Marisol listened to at least ten minutes of Paul saying little more than “uh huh” or “hmmm” every thirty seconds or so. After a painfully long silence in which Paul held the phone from his ear and looked baffled, he finally blurted, “Tony, what the fuck have you called me for?”

A few minutes later he hung up the phone and stood staring into space.

“What was that about?” Marisol asked.

“Strangest thing, that. Tone’s blathering on about nothing for eons and when I ask him what the fuck it is he wants, he says there have been a dozen calls from Fleet Street news desks today asking things like ‘Have you talked to Paul today? Is he ok? How’s he doing?’”

“Why would they ask that?”

“No idea. Do we have any brekkie?” Paul coaxed the baby out from under the table and Marisol went to see if there was anything in the kitchen she could turn into breakfast. The house was ready now, except for the basement apartment that was being furnished for Mr. and Mrs. Kelly. It smelled like sawdust and furniture oil, and she could clearly hear the construction workers downstairs, sawing and pounding nails and whistling while they worked.

Paul had just settled down at the dining room table with a cup of tea and a plate of toast and raspberry jam and his stack of music papers when the front gate buzzed. Three short followed by three long buzzes, which meant the caller was an insider and knew the secret code.

“Yes?” Paul said into the speaker.

“Hello, Paul, George Martin here. Have you got that tune for me?”

“Fucking hell,” Paul said, dropping his face into his hand. Through the speaker, Marisol heard the girls at the gate giggling at his outburst.

The next thing she knew, George Martin was standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. “What have you got for me?” he said to Paul.

“Right. I suppose there’s no more recuperating from a world tour. It’s—off the plane, into bed, and then Knock! Knock! Knock! Get up and write some songs.”

“It’s been three weeks. You have to give me something.”

“George, you remember Marisol,” Paul said, ushering him into the house.

“Hello dear, lovely to see you. Baby doing well?”

“Oh yes, she’s great, she’s here in the dining room if you’d like to—“

There was no need finishing the sentence, since Paul and Mr. Martin were already halfway to the central stairway, on their way upstairs to the music room.

“I need a wistful little tune,” Mr. Martin was saying.

“I’ll make some tea,” Marisol called after them.

 

Mr. Martin was standing over Paul at the piano in the music room at the top of the house, still giving instructions that would presumably spark Paul’s creative genius. “You’re supposed to be writing the music for this thing, and I’m supposed to be orchestrating it. But to do that I need a tune, and you’ve got to give me one. I need something that I can stretch and manipulate into a full blown score.”

Paul nodded in a half-hearted way and continued trailing his hands up and down the keyboard. It didn’t sound like a wistful little tune to Marisol. It sounded like he was just wanking around wasting time. Maybe that was how inspiration would strike, who knew?

Mr. Martin had a pen poised over a notebook. Marisol set down a tray of tea and silently left them to it.

Back in the dining room, she pulled a bucket full of little rubber farm animals out of the diaper bag. Paul had brought them home the other night and had spent an hour teaching Melody “how does the cow go?” and “how does the duck go?” but she more or less answered “Mooo!” to everything.

“Here’s your farm, Mel. How does the horse go?” Melody put the horse in her mouth, making it squeak. “Dada,” she said around the toy.

“Dada has to work. He’s a creative genius you know. Tons of people depending on him.”

The buzzer sounded from the front gate and Marisol sighed. Sometimes she wished she had a water hose to turn on those girls.

A drunken, toothy grin beckoned to her from the front of one of the music weekly papers Paul had abandoned. Marisol picked it up and began to read about Keith Moon, “Home Boy at Heart.” The article made a point of stating that Keith lived alone with his Labrador puppy named Flint. There was no mention at all of Kim or Mandy, unless Kim was the mysterious ‘young honey-blonde in Bournemouth’ who Keith was keen on.

How had they managed to keep their marriage, and a baby, a secret from the Fleet Street reporters? Marisol was dying to know. Besides, she liked Kim, and missed her. She found the phone number in her wallet and picked up the phone.

“Who is this?” asked a woman with a haughty voice.

“It’s Marisol. I’m Kim’s friend.”

There was an impatient sigh. “I’ll take down your number, dear, and I’ll pass it along.”

“Oh…okay…” Marisol thought it over. “Could you please not let anyone else have this number?”

“You girls and your rules.”

The woman repeated the number, and the phone rang five minutes later.

“I’ve been meaning to call you!” Kim gushed. “We’ve moved out of Keith’s parents’ house, and we’re in St. John’s Wood! We’re neighbors!”

“That’s fantastic! When can we get together?”

“How about now?”

Marisol laughed. She really liked this girl.

After a few minutes of conversation, Kim and Marisol decided to take the babies to Regent’s Park at noon, and they settled on a special code for Kim to use at the front gate so Marisol would know it was her.

 

Marisol and Melody were out in the garden enjoying the sunshine when Paul peeked his head out the French doors with Mr. Martin standing behind him, looking harried. “We’re off to the studio, love.”

“Oh, well done! You came up with something then?” Marisol asked.

“Sure, sure, I always do, don’t I?”

“If this ends up sounding like it was done in a hurry,” Mr. Martin said, “it’s because it’s being done in a hurry.”

Marisol could tell the exact instant Paul opened the gate because of the squeals from the front of the house. Maybe the fans would stop pushing the buzzer now that they’d seen Paul leave the house with their own eyes.

But no, within ten minutes the buzzing started up again. Marisol ignored it, the way she always did, and she was in the front room adding a cup of juice and a bowl of pretzels to Melody’s diaper bag for their walk when someone suddenly pounded on the front door, loud enough to wake the dead. Marisol gave an involuntary gasp of surprise, which startled Melody, and the baby made the same surprised gasp.

“Hell’s bells,” Marisol said, one hand over her heart.

She could clearly hear the workmen in the basement hammering and using a drill. The back door was unlocked for them. She couldn’t imagine why one of them should be pounding the hell out of the front door.

With Melody toddling behind her, Marisol flung open the door to find a harassed looking young man with dirty blonde hair, a long thin nose and low eyebrows, dressed in mod clothes. His fist was raised to pound the door some more.

“Could you please stop? The back door is open.”

“Oh! Sorry darlin. I had to jump over the wall. Seein’ as how ye didn’t answer the gate.” He grinned, showing a flash of even white teeth. “So where is he? Ten bob says he forgot all about me.”

Something about his grin was vaguely familiar. And that accent… While she tried to place him, to her dismay, he shoved past her into the house and looked around. “Coming right along, innit?” He spotted Melody holding on to the hem of Marisol’s skirt and his face broke into another grin. “Ah, there she is, the little lass! She’s the spit of ‘im!”

“Uh…who…?” Marisol began, still trying to place his face, and that accent.

He straightened his jacket and held out his hand. “I expect you're Marisol. I've been keepin’ the cats for ye.”

“Oh, I see.” Marisol shook his hand briefly and let go.

The strange young man was still grinning at her. “Oy, sorry love, You don’t have a clue who I am do ye? I’m Mike. Paul’s brother. Didn’t old numpty head tell ye I was comin’ by?”

Marisol laughed and grabbed his arm. “Ohhh! Mike! Of course, I should've known!”

“I've been waiting to meet you for donkey’s years,” Michael said. “Of course he forgot all about me, the bloody fool, he has a head like a sieve.”

“I'm sure he didn't forget you,” Marisol said, patting his arm, knowing full well Paul had forgotten. “He got called away to the studio.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “He doesn't give a toss for that movie music. We’re supposed to go round Tara’s. He’s got a car for me.”

Melody made an impatient sound and Marisol reached down and swung her onto her hip.

Mike immediately started making faces at her. Exactly the way Paul would do every time he saw a person under the age of five.

Melody dropped her head on Marisol’s shoulder and brought her thumb to her mouth but she couldn’t keep her eyes off this strange new person.

Mike put his own thumb in his mouth. “Mmm. Not bad. Can I try yours?” He tugged Melody’s thumb out of her mouth and leaned in and made smacking kissy sounds. He straightened and looked at Marisol. “How do ye think yer dogs will do with the cats? There’s three of ‘em y’know.”

“My dogs? They’ll be fine. They’re used to the barn cats back in California.”

Mike grinned. “I’ve always fancied seeing California. I told Paul he should have the weddin’ there on your vineyard. Give us all an excuse to come to the States. Maybe you could fly us all across.”

Marisol only nodded, feeling a little stunned at the amount of information Mike knew about her.

“D’ ye mind if I have a look round, see what he’s done to the place?” He reached inside his jacket, patted an envelope in his shirt pocket. “I’ve a letter from dear old dad. I’ll leave it upstairs.”

“Oh sure, make yourself at home, I could make some tea?”

Mike held out his arms. “Care to show yer Uncle Mike around?”

To Marisol’s surprise, her baby practically launched herself into this stranger’s arms. He bounced her a little and pretended to groan. “Oy, yer a heavy one. Yer a proper young lady now. We’ve a lot of catchin’ up to do!”

Off they went toward the central stairway, Michael narrating along the way, while Marisol stood awkwardly in the doorway watching them go. Her vineyard? The dogs? Fly them across? Paul’s brother could write an essay about her, it seemed, and she knew virtually nothing about him.

She didn’t have long to ponder this, because the front gate was buzzing again: three short followed by three long, which meant that Kim and Mandy were here.

 

Mike seemed instantly besotted with Kim, and why not? She was a naturally beautiful English rose sort of a girl, all pale skin and round rosy cheeks and big blue eyes. Mike looked at her like a hungry lion who’d just spotted a plump impala.

His face lit up with animation when Marisol mentioned they were going to Regent’s Park. “Do ye need a hand? Babies love me.”

Kim laughed merrily. “C’mon then. You can help us run that gauntlet of teenage girls outside.”

There were now a dozen girls at the gate. Word must have spread that Paul was back in town.

Some of the girls asked for Mike’s autograph and he seemed delighted to comply. He saw Marisol watching and smiled. “Ye didn’t know we had two show-offs in the family, did ye?”

“Whose baby is that?” one of the girls asked, pointing at Melody.

“Never you mind,” Mike said. “You worry about your own babies.”

 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Kim said. They’d wriggled the push carts past the crowd of girls the minute they gathered around Mike, leaving him to deal with them.

“They were probably on their best behavior since Paul’s brother was with us. They seem all right when Paul is around, but Pattie Harrison warned me not to find myself alone with any of them.”

“Oh yeah, I bet she’s had her fill of those ghastly girls.”

“Pattie says she gets death threats, can you believe it?”

At the corner Mike caught up with them, a little winded from his jog.

“Oh I believe it,” Kim said. “I’ve only been in the neighborhood a week and already I have a girl with an axe waiting down the street for me.”

“Are you kidding me?” Marisol said.

“Would you be needin’ a bodyguard?” Mike offered, flashing his ready grin. “I’m free today. And for the foreseeable future.”

Kim laughed. “You’ll be needing one yourself if Keith hears you make that offer. Besides, I ain’t worried, am I? I can be just as feisty as those beastly little girls.”

“I’ll bet you can,” Mike said, causing Marisol to glance up at him, but his expression looked totally innocent. In fact, he seemed thrilled to be with them on their walk and he glowed any time either of them gave him the slightest bit of attention.

“Is Keith really that jealous, Kim?”

“Let’s put it this way. I’m not allowed to go to the launderette in St. John’s Wood any more. He’s afraid I’ll get chatted up. I have to take our clothes over to his mother’s.”

“Why are you banned from a launderette?”

Kim grimaced. “It’s partly my fault. I was doing our clothes and a man came up to me, the typical modeling proposition, he says ‘you’ve got a lovely face, darling. You don’t need to be standing around doing the washing. I’m a modeling agent. Give me a call. So I put his card in Mandy’s pram only out of politeness…”

She paused while a furniture lorry rumbled by, and Marisol waved her hand in front of them, trying to rid the air of the sickening smell of exhaust fumes.

“Well, Keith found the card, didn’t he? And it happened that this so called agent worked for Paul Raymond, the soft-porn king?”

Mike barked a laugh. “No shit?”

“Keith exploded. Said I was consorting with bloody pornographers. He tells me I’m to do the shopping and come straight back again. I suppose he thinks the sheets get cleaned by magic the way they do in hotels and things. I can’t reason with him, he just rants and screams.”

Marisol sighed and decided to change the subject. “So what’s your new flat like?

“Oh, it’s fabulous. We’re on Ormonde Terrace, and we’ve got a view of both Primrose Hill and Regent’s Park.”

“Sounds gorgeous.”

“It is. I’ve never lived in such luxury. The only thing is, we live next door to Scott Walker of the Walker Brothers, and there’s always a pack of nasty little girls on patrol waiting for him or Keith. So I have to sneak around and can’t go near the windows with the baby since nobody is supposed to know Keith's married.”

Marisol remembered the article she’d just read in Disc and Music Echo about Keith being single. “Wait, why is that? Why doesn’t anyone know you’re married?”

Kim shrugged. “His manager says.”

“They haven’t really broken the States yet. It’s textbook publicity rules,” Mike offered. “Best to appear available for the eager young female fans. Keith is the cute one, after all.”

They reached the park, a stunning, elegantly maintained quintessentially English garden oasis in the middle of London, practically teeming with wildlife. Hedgehogs roaming around, pelicans sitting on the lake, and people hand feeding squirrels. On a bench near the lake they settled in to watch the black swans, while Mike went whistling off to buy the girls some refreshments.

They talked about their families, and Kim mentioned she knew who Marisol’s older sister Margo was from her modeling days and had wanted to be just like her when she was a little girl.

“Do you miss modeling?” Marisol reached down and pulled Melody onto her lap before a squirrel crawled on her.

Kim snatched her own daughter from the path of the overly tame squirrel. “Sometimes. But I couldn’t keep it up. Keith showed up at a modeling shoot when we were first dating and beat the bloody hell out of the male model I was posing with. ‘Nobody puts their hands on her but me!’ he was screaming. My agent told me if I wanted to work again I better make sure Keith never found out where I was shooting.” She shrugged. “It just wasn’t worth it.”

“Kim, why do you stay with him?"

Kim blinked her big blue eyes at her. “Because he’s the love of my life.”

Marisol opened her mouth to respond, but Mike was back, bearing Cream Tea with scones and strawberry jam, and a package of nuts for the girls to toss to the squirrels. She’d have to wait for another time to ask Kim more about her life with “the Loon.” But Kim’s stories troubled her, and even in this restful oasis, with its expanse of greenery and complete loveliness, Marisol couldn’t seem to unwind and relax.

The babies played together beautifully for about an hour, until Melody decided Mandy’s arm was a teething ring and leaned over and took a bite out of her. Mandy screamed, Marisol screamed and snatched her daughter away, Melody screamed in surprise, and Kim extinguished her cigarette and calmly reached for her baby.

“I’m so sorry! I never dreamed she would bite!”

“She’s fine,” Kim said, over her daughter’s screams. “We have to be going anyway. I want to get back before Keith wakes up.”

Marisol glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was after 2. Oh well, it wasn’t her business how late Keith Moon stayed in bed. Paul would probably sleep that late too if Marisol didn’t crawl back in bed naked and rub herself all over him to wake him up every morning.

“Can we walk you home?” Michael offered, sounding a little too eager.

“I’m all right,” Kim assured him. “I always go in the back way in case there are any girls on patrol out front.”

“I’m so sorry about the biting,” Marisol said again when they reached the edge of the park.

Kim leaned over and kissed Marisol’s cheek. “Don’t give it another thought. What’s a little love bite between friends?”

“You smell nice,” Marisol said. “What is that?”

“It’s probably sweat,” Kim said, donning her shades.

Marisol heard Mike groan softly.

A silence fell as they watched Kim walk away, heading back to her own pack of ghastly little girls outside her flat. Then Mike and Marisol turned toward Cavendish.

“So tell me, what was it like growing up with Paul?” Marisol asked to break the silence.

“Are you writing his bio?” Mike asked cheekily.

Marisol laughed. “No, I’m marrying him. Really, what was he like?”

“Who, Chubby Chops?”

“Did you say chubby?”

“Yeh.” Mike smiled at the memory. “My dear big brother went through a fat period, back at Joey Williams Primary. The only time anything outwardly affected him. Whenever we had an argument, I’d counter with a lightning ‘Fatty!’ and run like hell.”

“I can’t picture Paul chubby. Tell me more.”

Mike lit a cigarette and seemed to be deciding which tales to tell. “Oh you know. He was a bit of lad at the Inny. When the masters heard another McCartney was comin’, they were on alert. I didn’t let them down.” He winked, and Marisol laughed.

“What did the two of you get up to?”

“The usual. Throwing water bombs. Sticking milk bottle tops into the light sockets and replacing the bulbs and when the master came into the classroom and flipped the lights it was snap…crackle..BOOM! and the whole school’s lights would fuse.”

“You little juvenile delinquents. I bet you got caned for that.”

Mike flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Cor yes. All the bloody time. I remember me best friend being harassed by this teacher we called Chopper. I objected to it and he said, ‘Oh, you don’t think it’s right eh McCartney?’ ‘No sir,’ I said. ‘Well come down here lad.’”

Mike did such a fine imitation of the schoolmaster’s voice followed by his own schoolboy’s voice that Marisol couldn’t keep from laughing.

“I was up in the Science benches,” Mike continued. “So I said, ‘No thanks, you’ll hit me.’ ‘No I won’t lad, come down here.’ ‘No sir, you’ll hit me, sir.’ ‘No I won’t lad.’ I got as close as I dared and CRACK! He knocked me unconscious with the full force of his open hand.”

“What? He didn’t! What did your father do?”

“What did Dad do? When I came round I threatened to ‘Get me Dad on you.’ I ran straight home and told Dad and he said, ‘Don’t be silly son, the masters are always right,’ and went back to his crossword.”

Marisol made a commiserating sound.

“Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Big brother got one belting that he said was actually worth it. He caught a pretty little Blackburn House schoolgirl in the winter and stuffed ice cold white snow down the front of her nice warm white blouse.”

Marisol shivered at the image. “Wonder how much he’d hate you telling me all this."

“There he is, you can ask him yourself.”

A horn blasted and a taxi driver shouted an angry oath as a gorgeous green Aston Martin DB6 traveling the opposite direction suddenly swerved onto the wrong side of the road through opposing traffic and screeched to a stop in front of them, one front tire ending up on the curb. The window came down, revealing an even more gorgeous dark-haired man, along with the sound of the Beach Boys “Good Vibrations.”

Marisol’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, as always, and he seemed to feel the same way, judging by the way he was smiling at her.

“Well, I see you two have finally met,” Paul said.

“Ay yous, did ye forget something?” Mike demanded.

“No, you twat, you said Friday. That’s tomorrow.”

“Bloody hell I did! You numpty head. Yer head is like a bloody sieve!”

“Sod off.”

The passenger door opened and Mal jumped out and held the car door open for Marisol. “Come in, love, before we draw a crowd.”

As soon as she was settled with the baby in her lap, Marisol frowned at Paul. “Your daughter bit Kim Moon’s baby.”

Paul arched a brow. “So she’s my daughter when she does something socially inappropriate?”

“I was mortified.”

Paul laughed and ruffled the baby’s hair. Melody, exhausted after the excitement of the squirrels and the biting, rested her head against Marisol’s chest and seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.

Marisol leaned across the seat and gave her fiancé a kiss. “How did your song go, Chubby Chops?”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

“I said, how did your song go, my gorgeous husband to be?”

“Fine, fine. Hope that gets Mr. Martin off me back for a bit. So how did you end up at the park with our kid and Kim Moon?”

“Your brother just showed up at the door, and Keith and Kim are living right down the street, can you believe it?”

“Moonie is living here now? Fuck me, we’ll never be safe on the sidewalks again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He left the Scotch one night in his Bentley and wiped out a Porsche, an Aston Martin, someone else’s Bentley and a Jaguar, just trying to get out of the parking area outside. Every time he comes back to the Scotch people are queuing up to get their money.”

Marisol sighed in response. The more she heard about Keith, the more she worried about her new friend.

Outside the car, Mal and Mike were scratching their heads over how to collapse the push cart so they could stow it in the boot. They finally lifted it inside without folding it and left the boot lid open.

 

The girls at the gate jumped to their feet and cleared a path for the Aston Martin when Paul roared into the drive.

Paul kept his window rolled up. “I’ve already signed for them, every last one of ‘em,” he muttered. He held a key over his shoulder and Mal scrambled out and opened the gate for Paul to screech into the courtyard.

Marisol could hear Mal being peppered with questions as he locked the gate. “Who is that girl? Is that Paul’s girlfriend or Mike’s girlfriend? Where has Paul been hiding? Why is everyone saying he had a wreck?”

Mal answered with noncommittal grunts and told one of the girls to stop climbing on the gate.

 

“Can you do us some sandwiches love?” Paul asked the minute they got inside the house.

Marisol handed the baby to him. “As long as you watch your daughter I can.”

“Listen, I want to talk to you about Dad for a mo,” Mike said.

Paul glanced over his shoulder at Mal, who was on his heels as they all filed into the kitchen.

“Socks, Mal!”

With a flustered expression, Mal grabbed the keys from the counter and hurried out of the room. Marisol heard the front door slam.

“What did you just say to Mal?”

“Oh, that? It’s sort of an inside joke. Y’see, John sends Mal up for wearing black banker’s socks. It really gets to him, he’s so embarrassed about his black socks. But now when we want him to disappear for a bit we just yell ‘Socks!’ and he runs out and comes back in about an hour with some nice neon colored socks for everyone. He just does it. He doesn’t even ask questions.”

“You’re so mean to him.”

“We’re not! He loves working for us. He has a bigger head than all four of us.”

“I don’t see how that’s remotely possible.”

Mike had been rummaging in the refrigerator. He turned around, holding a package of cheese. “Are you talking about Elephant?”

Paul laughed. “Yeah.”

“Why do you call him Elephant?” Marisol asked.

“Never you mind,” Paul said.

They had lunch outside in the garden, away from the construction noise. Mike was worried about their father’s arthritis, and he wanted to update Paul on doctors and tests and new medical treatments, and let him know how everyone was settling in to their new home on the Wirral. Mike and Paul talked about Sybilla’s, a new London nightclub, and they were both highly amused about their mutual friend Tara and his antics in his new Cobra: cutting through “the Queen’s back garden” and getting his license suspended for speeding coming off the motorway.

“Like you could drive that car under sixty.” Paul shook his head sadly.

“You can’t imagine how frustrated he is. And him a race car driver.”

An hour later, as predicted, Mal blew in with an assortment of multi-colored men’s socks. Paul sorted through the socks, keeping some for himself and handing the rest to Mike. “Well done, Mal.”

Mal stood there, shuffling his feet.

Paul snapped his fingers. “Oh right. You need cash. Mari, grab some money out of the safe for Mal.”

“Isn’t it locked?”

“No, I never lock it.”

Marisol pulled open the door of a small safe in the corner of the den and what looked like years and years of pay packets tumbled onto the floor. Hundreds of them. It looked like Paul had robbed a payroll office and was storing all the money until the heat died down so he could split it with the gang.

Marisol selected one of the pay packets at random and shoved the rest back inside the unlocked safe. She held it out to Paul, who was dancing around the den with Melody in his arms.

“There,” Paul said, indicating Marisol should hand the unopened pay packet to Mal. “That should cover it then.”

“Do you even know how much is in there?” Mike asked.

“Course not, haven’t the foggiest.”

Mike looked over Mal’s shoulder as he opened the pay packet. “It’s round fifty quid. You’ve even got a pay slip.”

“You can keep the rest for the next socks run, Mal. Now we’re off to Tara’s.”

Mal tucked the money into his pocket. He eyed the leftover plate of sandwiches and seemed to deflate a little. Paul was running him ragged, it seemed to Marisol.

“Do you want to go round Tara’s with us, love?” Paul asked her.

She glanced at their daughter, who was rubbing her eyes. “Your little vampire needs a nap.”

Paul frowned. “You don’t mind if we go, do you?”

“Of course not. Go. But don’t speed,” she reminded him, with tales of Tara and the Cobra fresh in her mind.

Paul gave her a kiss. “I’ll be back in time to take you to dinner. Brush up on your French. I’ll take you to Mon Plaisir.”

Marisol pressed a wrapped sandwich into Mal’s hands, and he smiled gratefully on his way out the door, off to do more of Paul’s bidding.

The door closed behind them and Marisol blew out a loud breath. This place was like a circus. Melody looked up and made the same sort of huffing noise.

“Your daddy is a one man Barnum & Bailey Beatle Circus, you know that?”

She put her daughter to bed with a story about Princess Mel who lived in a big castle in England, who was the envy of all the girls in the land, but she never had a moment’s peace since there was construction going on in the castle and there were peasants clamoring outside the moat who constantly wanted in to see the King because they were in love with him and they wailed and moaned and rang the buzzer all the day long.

Then she crawled in Paul’s huge bed in the master bedroom. Rolling onto her side, she pulled Paul’s pillow over her head to muffle the sounds of hammering from the basement and buzzing and intermittent squealing from the front gate. A quiet day in the city, my American ass. She thought about calling Marcus and asking him to send over a case of their best Sauvignon Blanc. She was going to need something a lot stronger than Cream Tea to handle life in London.


	10. Chapter 10

_**“Why, darling, I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”** _  
_—Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms_

 

Marisol awoke with a jolt to the sound of an animal braying. She sat up, sucking in air through her nose, and peered through the dark in an unfamiliar bedroom. What was that noise? A dog, but not quite a dog. A wolf? In the downstairs parlor?

She blinked away the sleep and reached out a hand to check that Melody was sleeping soundly through the ruckus, exhausted from their journey. After working all day with Mr. Martin to finish the movie soundtrack, Paul had collected Marisol and Melody for the 350 mile trip up the M1 to Rembrandt, the house on the Wirral that he had bought for his father and stepmother. It was after dark when they arrived, and Jim and Angie had met them with tea and sandwiches and warm northern hospitality. Paul and his father were still sitting in the back garden, smoking and catching up, when Marisol put Melody to bed in this upstairs guest room and fell asleep beside her.

She brought her watch to her face, trying to read the small face by the light of the moon through the gauze curtains. Half past three, and it sounded like a circus train was unloading downstairs. Car doors slamming, the front door opening and closing, whooping and laughing, and an animal in deep distress.

After a final glance at Melody, Marisol swung her feet to the chilly wood floor, slipped on her kimono over her short purple nightie, scraped her hair back in an elastic band and opened the door to look for Paul.

She found him in the downstairs front parlor, along with a room full of people and luggage and a large Alsatian literally climbing the walls. The animal circled the room, dragging a leash, pausing in each corner to leap up the wall as high as it could, with sharp, agitated barks.

An immaculately dressed and made up young blonde woman clung to the arm of a startlingly handsome man dressed in velvet with a menthol cigarette burning between his fingers. Beside them, Paul’s brother Mike looked up from the luggage he’d just brought inside. “Arr ay, sorry love, did we wake ye girl?”

Paul turned around, his face lighting up when he saw Marisol. He bounced over and pulled her down the last few stairs with his fingers threaded through hers. “Come ‘ead, love, I’ve someone for you to meet.”

Over the fracas, he shouted in her ear. “T’is my friend Tara and his friend Suki.”

Tara raised his chin in her direction and said something in a soft voice that Marisol couldn’t hear.

“You remember me telling you about Tara, don’t you love?” Paul was still shouting above the barking of the dog. “He owns the Dandy in Chelsea, where I’ve started buying me clothes.”

Paul nudged her forward. "My lovely bride to be, Marisol Hemingway," he said, and was it her imagination, or did he slightly exaggerate her last name? She gave Tara what she hoped was a warm smile.

“Tara owns a sports-car dealership as well,” Paul continued. “And Suki here is a fashion model.”

Of course she is, Marisol thought, pulling the kimono tighter over her rumpled nightie. She wished she’d at least glanced in a mirror before wandering into this scene.

“We’ve all heard loads about you,” Suki said.

“And you remember Michael,” Paul added, offhandedly.

Mike wore a dazzling smile, and, inexplicably, a crash helmet. “Wat is, sis!” He took off the helmet and kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome to Rembrandt.”

“Oh! Hello again…this is…um…such a nice surprise…” Marisol stammered, a hand to her chest, holding her kimono closed.

“Tara’s been keen to meet you for months,” Michael shouted over the dog. “When I rang me arl fella and Paul answered, I said we simply must drive up, la.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Marisol said, and slid her gaze to Paul, her smile frozen in place, wanting to wring his neck for not telling her his brother and his friends were on the way.

"Suki also works at the Dandy at times," Paul said out of the blue, and Marisol glanced back at the immaculately made up blonde.

Suki's eyes roamed over Marisol, from her pony hair to her unpainted nails to her unmanicured toes. “You should come in some time, love. We’ll do you up.”

“How could I refuse." Marisol pointed at the Alsatian. “What’s wrong with that dog?”

Suki tutted and reached in her enormous purse and pulled out a gold lighter and an engraved cigarette case. “I never wanted to bring her in the first place,” she said, hooking a thumb at Tara.

The Alsatian, making its rounds, paused to place two front paws on Tara’s hip and howl up at him. Tara rested a hand on the dog’s head, but his eyes were on Paul. “Have you seen the Cobra since we’ve painted it psychedelic?”

“G’wed lad!” Paul clapped his hands. “Let’s have a look.” At the front door, he glanced back. “Mari, love, check on the tea, would you?”

Marisol stood looking after him, not believing what had just transpired. Check on the tea? It was the middle of the night. She wasn’t making any bloody tea. How was anyone sleeping through this? With a huff, she turned on her heel and went to check on her daughter.

Satisfied that Melody was sleeping soundly, Marisol slipped into a pair of pedal pushers and espadrilles and the same top she’d worn on the drive up. She brushed her teeth and spritzed her hair with perfume and followed the sound of the barking dog into the kitchen.

Mike was at the stove, standing over a kettle, looking a little bleary eyed.

Beside him, Suki rummaged through her purse. “Christ, where are my migraine tabs?” She glared at the dog, who had moved to the back door to bark nonstop. “Stop it, Gwennie, for Christ’s sake,” Suki shouted at the dog. "My bloody head is killing me!"

“Does she need to go outside?” Marisol asked. No one heard her. She repeated it, louder this time.

Suki pushed her long blonde hair off her face. “I’ve no idea. Who’d have thought a dog would get into a sugar cube coated with acid. Lesson learned.”

Marisol gaped at her. “Surely you aren't saying you gave that dog LSD?”

Suki waved a red manicured hand. “We didn’t give her anything. She was nosing around in my bag. Then she nearly ate her way out of the car. Longest journey of my life.”

“Oh my god. You need to take her to a vet!”

Suki chuckled mirthlessly. “Right, love. And have Liverpool’s Finest breathing down our necks. She’ll come down in a bit.”

Marisol slammed around in the cupboards until she found a large pot. She filled it with water and offered it to the dog, who ignored it. “God, you poor thing.” She reached out to stroke the dog’s head, and the animal flinched and darted away, circling the room twice before coming back to bark at the door.

“All right, out you go.”

The huge back garden was surrounded by a waist high wall and far enough away from neighbors that the dog’s barking probably wouldn’t wake anyone. Marisol put the pot of water on the terrace and marched through the house and out the front door, where she found Paul sitting inside a brightly painted sports car in a haze of marijuana smoke. The “Blow-Up” soundtrack by Herbie Hancock played on the record player installed under the dash.

Marisol wrenched open the door of the car and squatted down, eye level with Paul. “I need to talk to you."

Paul smiled sweetly, looking a little glassy-eyed. His cheeks were flushed, and he radiated warmth. ”Hi pretty. Whazzup?"

Tara held out a fragrant cigarette. “Care to join us, darling?”

"Could I speak with you privately?” Marisol said to Paul, ignoring Tara.

Paul intercepted the joint, took a drag and blew out, a blissful expression on his face. "Tisn't the best time, love. Catch me in a bit."

If she hadn't been squatting down, Marisol would've stamped her foot. "It's about that pitiful creature they've drugged," she hissed.

“Terribly sorry, dear girl, but you’re letting in the night air,” Tara said, frowning at Marisol. “Come inside and close the door.”

Paul squinted at her through a haze of grey smoke. “Get inside, love. You can sit on my knee.”  
He handed the joint to Tara and pulled a record from the carrying case in his lap. "Too many teardrops for one heart to be cryin'," he sang to no one in particular. Then he shoved the carrying case between his legs and patted his knee. “Here you go, love. Close that door before the neighbors show up.”

“I’m not sitting on your knee!" Marisol snarled. “If you don’t take that dog to a vet I’m going to call someone. Right now!”

“Dear girl, why are you getting all worked up? So much wasted emotional energy.” Tara dropped his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

Paul leaned over, frowning at her. “Mari, you’re creating a scene. It’s a li’l embarrassing,” he whispered.

Marisol gaped at him. “You are embarrassing me in front of that wretched dog, who might die. You’re…you’re…” she sputtered, unable to find the words.

“Gwennie is fine, love,” Tara said soothingly, opening his eyes. “She likely got a little too much this time.” He reached in his jacket pocket, withdrew a silver flask and unscrewed the lid.

“This time? You people don’t deserve to have a dog!” Glaring at Paul, Marisol stood and slammed the door. She marched around the side of the house and let herself into the garden, ignoring Paul’s cries of “Baby! Come back here!”

The dog was still making a circuit of the back garden, now and then lifting its paws on the wall as if looking for a way to escape its tripping brain. The pot of water was empty. Marisol refilled it from the spigot. She sat down on the back steps with her chin in her hands, hugging herself against the cool night breeze. It wasn’t only the situation with the dog and Paul’s socialite friends showing up in the middle of the night. The events of the last two weeks were making her decidedly uneasy.

Since the day Marisol had taken that flying lesson against his wishes, Paul had made daily trips to London, to work on the movie or the bookstore or meet with his arty friends. By dinner time he always phoned Marisol and offered to send a car for her and arrange for a babysitter. Marisol went along with this for the first few days, until she realized she'd rather be home playing with her baby than sitting in a smoky, noisy club worrying about her baby.

“I can't keep leaving her with strangers,” she’d complained last weekend. “She's too little. This is not good parenting.”

Paul had stayed home the next few nights, but he'd seemed restless and bored and they'd ended up picking a silly fight with each other. The next time he'd phoned from London asking Marisol to meet him out, she'd told him to go without her. Melody seemed to be coming down with a cold, and she didn't feel right leaving her.

Paul made his way back to Sussex to her bed that night, after two in the morning and smelling of tobacco and whiskey, and he’d told her about his day and the people he’d met and he’d wanted wilder sex than usual, and Marisol barely managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep before Melody woke up with the sun, cranky with a cough and stuffy nose.

On those nights when Marisol stayed home in Sussex minding their daughter, Paul had been mixing with a set of rich young socialites in London. Tara Browne was the most famous of Paul’s new friends. An heir to the Guiness fortune, son of a Lord, handsome and sophisticated, he spoke fluent French and Italian and knew all the right people. Paul seemed transfixed by him.

And for the life of her, now that she’d met him, Marisol couldn’t understand why. Was Paul that much of a social climber, that he wanted Tara’s friendship because of his family wealth and his title? She’d never seen this side of Paul before. Who was this person she was engaged to?

By the time the back door opened, spilling light into the back garden, the dog had stopped her relentless pacing and now stood in the center of the garden, panting and whining.

Paul lowered himself beside Marisol. “Mari, my angel, where have you been? I’ve been so worried I’ve taken to drink.” He slipped an arm around her waist, and she felt instantly warmer. Part of her wanted to snuggle against him, and part of her wanted to shake some sense into him.

“Someone needs to be with this poor creature. And by the way, you could have told me the house was full of guests…and your brother…before I crashed the party in my nightgown.”

“You looked perfect. You always look perfect to me.” He tugged at her hair band, releasing her hair to fall across her shoulders.

Wordlessly, she held out her hand and he dropped the hair band into her palm. It was their routine, when he wanted to make love, which was practically every second they were alone, he let her hair down. There were discarded hair bands all over the house in Sussex. In every room, on every surface, little reminders of making love with her gorgeous fiancé whenever and wherever the mood struck him.

“I'm picturing you naked right now,” he said, pulling her ear lobe into his warm mouth, sending shivers through her.

“Now would be a good time to stop doing that.”

He ran his fingers through her hair and breathed deeply. “It was a brilliant decision, buying you that perfume. Every time I smell you I want to eat you up.”

She turned her face away, refusing to let him charm her out of her bad mood. Not while this dog was clearly in distress.

He lowered his head onto her shoulder, breathing heavily, reeking of alcohol. “Come to bed with me,” he murmured.

“Very tempting offer. But someone needs to take care of that dog. And you are that someone.”

“You smell like heaven, baby.” He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his lips against her neck. “Your room or mine?” he said, his lips at her ear.

The dog lifted its head and howled pitifully. Marisol pulled away and gave Paul a look. “How can you think about sex when this dog is suffering?”

“She’ll be fine, love. Tara already said.”

“Oh, Tara said, that makes it all okay,” she huffed. “I cannot believe you are friends with people who would do such a thing to an innocent creature.”

“It’s not even their dog, you know. It’s Hollingshead’s dog or summat.“

“Animals are at the mercy of the world, and those friends of yours—”

“For Christ’s sake, Mari!” He pulled away, slapping his palms on his knees. “If this is how it's going to be, we need to have a sherioush talk.” His words were slurred at the end.

“You can say that again. Maybe when you're sober—”

“I am the captain of this ship, Mari,” he cut her off, narrowing his eyes at her. “Don't you forget it. You are not the captain of this ship.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You weren’t all tha’ nice to my friends, and now yer off to sleep by yourself. Eerbody will be wonderin’ why I can’t sleep with my girl. You are not the captain o’ thish bloody ship, girl.” His voice rose as he wagged a finger in her face.

She swatted his hand away. “Sshh! Lower your voice, for god's sake Paul. There are children in this house, trying to sleep."

"I know that. One of them is mine. Yer burnin’ me head out, you!”

"I’m not arguing with you in the middle of the night when you are lit like a Christmas tree. You need to stay out here and make sure this dog is all right. And give it more water if it needs it. Do you hear me?”

Paul stood, waving her away as if she were an annoying gnat. “I bloody hear you, and I’m bloody tired of your bloody bossy nature.”

Marisol scratched at a bug bite on her forearm. “Whatever, Paul. Take care of that animal.” She left him walking toward the middle of the garden, toward the poor, whimpering dog.

*

The next morning, with her daughter on her hip, Marisol tiptoed around the bodies passed out in the front room, one of whom looked like it could be her fiancé.

In the kitchen, Paul’s father greeted both Marisol and Melody with a kiss on the cheek. Seven-year-old Ruth had been bundled off to school, and according to Paul's father, his wife Angie was "doing the marketing", evidently unprepared for the arrival of the colorful house guests now splashed across her living room floor.

Jim and Marisol had breakfast in the garden, overlooking the river Dee with views across to the hills of North Wales.

They sipped their tea and crunched their corn flakes, neither of them mentioning the bodies passed out in the front parlor or the strange dog lying prone in the middle of the garden. Still alive. Marisol had checked.

It was such a lovely setting, so calm and quiet, that Marisol had the surreal feeling that the previous night had never happened, but for the Alsatian sleeping it off a few yards away.

Paul’s father seemed faintly amused at the antics of Paul and his friends, and extremely proud of his famous son. All he wanted to talk about was Paul’s MBE, and how his mother Mary would have been so proud, and how the house Paul had bought them was the sort of house Mary had always aspired to live in.

He took Melody from Marisol's arms and strolled around the garden, pointing out all the plants and flowers by name, crushing lavender between his fingers and holding it up to Melody. "Smell that, little one? That's lavender. It was your grandmother's favorite scent."

Marisol trailed them around the garden, listening as Jim told her daughter about her grandmother.

"It was a pain always having to move, but Mary aspired to have a better life for her sons. Better neighborhood," Jim was saying to Melody. "She was madly aspiring for her sons. She wanted your father to be a teacher. And he might've been. But she died and rock and roll claimed him.”

Jim wore a whimsical smile as he patted Melody’s tiny back. “Your da is not the first performer in the McCartney family, only the most famous. There’s always been a whiff of greasepaint about this family. My father Joe was blessed with a fine singing voice. In fact, a rich old lady once left him forty pounds in her will after she persuaded him to sing for her when she was sick. He was the limelight boy at the Theatre Royal, the one who followed the star around the stage with the spotlight. Who knows, little one, maybe you’ll be a star one day too. Fortune favors the bold.” He winked at Marisol, and she realized how fond she had become of Paul’s father, and how content she felt watching him carry her daughter around the garden, dispensing wisdom and jokes and his gnomic expressions. 

 

It was past noon and Marisol was still in the garden, making clover chains with Melody, when Paul walked out, blinking in the bright sun. He squatted down, smiling at the two of them.

“Morning, love. All right?”

Marisol took in his rumpled appearance. Even hung over, after a night of sleeping on the floor, he was the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Her fingers ached to touch that tousled head of hair, but she tamped down the feeling and gave him a tight smile. “Aye aye, Capitan. All is ship shape.”

Paul didn’t appear to know she was alluding to last night's drunken conversation which he might or might not remember. “Did you sleep well, love?” He leaned down and gave Marisol a whiskery kiss.

"You need to shave."

He rubbed his chin on her cheek in response. When she pulled away, he leaned over and blew raspberries into Melody's neck. Melody squealed and arched away, then reached out her chubby arms for him, as if she couldn't make up her mind.

Marisol laughed. "You want him and you don't want him. Exactly how I feel. Every day."

"I always want you. Every damn day."

"Uh huh. You didn't seem to want me last night when you were sitting in that ridiculous car getting blazed."

"That ridiculous car is a beast. Zero to 120 in six seconds. Tara opened it up last time we were out."

Marisol grimaced. "I don't even want to hear that. Please don't tell me you drove around with that maniac who gives LSD to a dog."

Paul stretched out beside her in the grass, propped up on an elbow. "So you do care."

"Of course I care.” Her fingers had a mind of their own. Against her wishes, they reached out and ruffled his already sleep ruffled hair. "My captain."

”Okay, I'll bite. What's with the captain shit?"

"You don't remember what you said to me last night?” She puffed out her chest and tried to make her voice sound male and Scouse. “I’m the captain of this ship, and you’re just a silly feeble-brained girl. Don’t you forget it.”

Paul barked out a laugh. "Pull the other one."

"You said it."

"I bet that went over like a lead balloon.”

“Mm hmm. About last night, Paul—“

“Oh here we go.” He rolled onto his back and frowned up at the clouds. “You’re not going to hold me responsible for something I said when I was bladdered, are you?”

“No, but…” She glanced over her shoulder at the house, then back at Paul. “Who are these people?”

“Tara and Suki? I don’t know Suki much, but Tara is all right. He’s a Guiness heir, and a right honorable one at that. His father is in the House of Lords.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything.”

Paul didn’t seem to catch her sarcasm, or he chose to ignore it. “That’s the brilliant thing about the 60’s, Mari. Finally we have a generation of young people who don’t have a war to fight, we have new leisure and money, and we’re enjoying our freedoms in an environment where it doesn’t matter if you’re an earl or a penniless bloke from Liverpool.”

Marisol looked skeptical. “Are you supposed to be the penniless guy from Liverpool?”

“Class barriers are melting away. That’s all I’m saying.”

Spying her father on his back in the grass, Melody had been struggling to get to him. Marisol opened her arms and the baby was off.

“Is that why you find him so fascinating? Because he’s an earl, or a lord, or whatever?”

“I don’t find him fascinating,” he said, with a slight scowl. “He’s a good lad. A mate, that’s all.” He lifted Melody onto his chest and they began doing the clapping and hand slapping game he had recently taught her.

“Sounds like he’s one of those people who has more money than sense.” Marisol stretched out beside them, watching them play. “Reminds me of something my grandfather once said.”

“I’m all ears,” Paul said, not unkindly.

Marisol propped her head on an elbow. “Once when I was a little girl we were at my Papa Hemingway's house in Cuba and the adults were all drinking, as usual, and talking, and I must've wanted attention because out of nowhere I announced ‘the kids at school think I'm pretty.’ Conversation stopped, everyone was looking at me, and Papa pointed at me and said ‘you had nothing whatsoever to do with that. What mark are you going to leave on the world?’”

Marisol finished, pressed her lips together and looked pointedly at Paul.

"You've left your mark all over me,” Paul said, shifting to catch her eye. "And the kids at school were right. You're still pretty. I notice every day."

Marisol lowered her eyes, not ready to succumb to his charm. "The point is, Tara had nothing to do with being born rich. What has--"

"I know what your point is." Paul lifted the baby over his head, smiling at her squeals. "I'll have a word with him about the dog. I'm sure they won't let it happen again. It’s not even his dog.”

“Where is the owner?”

“Fuck if I know, probably got busted again.” He lowered Melody to the ground, and she immediately crawled all over him, patting him and trying to engage him in play.

“Anyway, Tara’s great,” Paul continued. “You’d like him. He’s very international, grew up in Paris, but he has the Irish traits of bring extremely social and amusing. He’s the guy always at the center of the room, making connections. He’s the guy who will say ‘Princess Margaret, have you met Mick Jagger?’”

As if on cue, the back door opened and Tara came out onto the terrace, wearing bright blue tinted sunglasses and holding a paper bag. He stretched and gave a whistle. Under the shade of an elm tree, the Alsatian raised her head. One more whistle, and she climbed to her feet, shook herself and bounded across the lawn. "Gwennie, my darling girl!" Tara cried. “Who is the love of my life? Who’s a good girl?”

Marisol sat up and watched the happy man and dog reunion with skepticism until Tara began hand feeding the dog what looked like bites of filet mignon from the paper bag.

"I still may turn him in to the ASPCA," she muttered.

"The captain of the ship," Paul repeated, chuckling. He flinched as Melody gave him a pat that landed too close to his right eye.

"Yeah. That was quite a night.“

"It's true though."

"What is true?"

"That I'm the captain of this ship."

"Oh for Pete’s sake," Marisol said, rolling her eyes and taking a swat at him.

He caught her hand and kept it, threading their fingers together. "I missed you last night."

"How would you know? You were wasted."

"Because I always miss you when you're not in my arms.”

He looked up, squinting from the sun, and held her gaze. He had this way of smiling even when he wasn’t, giving the impression that he was full of mischief all the time. He did it with waitresses, with female authority figures, with girls he was hitting on, and he was doing it with Marisol right now. She felt herself smiling at him. It was impossible not to.

He sat up, one hand sifting through a patch of clover between them. He looked down for a split second and pulled up a four leaf clover. “There ya go, girl.”

“I’ve been out here for an hour sorting through this clover and you found one with four leaves just like that?”

“The luck of the Irish,” Paul said, tucking it behind her ear.

“That’s one in ten thousand, that four leaf clover.”

A sparrow landed on the birdbath next to them and Melody squealed and waved her arms. The clover chain around her neck went flying. Paul caught it and looped it into a crown which he placed on Marisol’s head. “And you’re one in a million. I crown thee the queen of my heart.”

“You’re not going to woo me with your pretty words and clover.”

His face suddenly lit up, as though he'd had a brilliant idea. “I know what you need, and I have just the thing for it.”

“I can’t wait to hear this.”

But she would have to wait, it seemed, as Tara was standing in front of them, with Gwennie at his side, whose entire body was wiggling with pleasure. Despite his night on the floor, Tara was impeccably turned out, in black trousers, a mauve shirt, green suede jacket and brocade tie. To Marisol’s surprise, he dropped to his knees in front of Melody.

“Daaaarliiiiing,” Tara drawled, in a soft but husky voice. “Who is this lovely flower who’s suddenly sprouted in the garden?” He grinned at Melody, allowing Marisol to study him from a few feet away. He had a fine-boned face framed by straight blonde hair that any girl would envy, and blue guileless eyes. He looked like an angel, or at the very least an altar boy, and she had to remind herself that the last time she’d laid eyes on this angelic creature he had a flask of scotch in one hand and a marijuana cigarette in the other.

Melody cooed and crawled toward the dog, and Paul leaned over and stopped her progress by scooping her into his lap.

“Does this little one sing?” Tara asked.

“She likely does,” Paul answered. “She’s a dancer. Terrific sense of rhythm.”

Marisol smiled to herself. She’d never tire of hearing Paul boasting about their baby.

“And do you sing?” Tara asked Marisol.

“Not if I can help it.”

“I’ll bet you’re a writer though.”

“Again, not if I can help it.”

“Well you must do something. The most eligible man in the world is suddenly nowhere to be found. Cherchez la femme,” he finished, in perfectly accented French.

Marisol shot a glance at Paul, who merely winked at her. For once he remained silent, leaving Marisol to think he wanted her to make friends with Tara without his interference. As if in confirmation, Paul suddenly stood and carried Melody away in pursuit of the dog, who was happily galloping around the garden.

She watched the two of them cavorting after the dog for a moment. When she turned to Tara, he was looking at her with a friendly smile on his face.

“Did you go to school in Paris? Paul said something—“

“God no.” Tara laughed. “I only attended boarding school for two years. I got out of that bloody place. Sent myself a telegram that read ‘Unforeseen circumstances, come home immediately, Your Loving Mother.’ Then I called a taxi and came home.”

Marisol laughed with him. “What did your mother say about that?”

“She found it hilarious. The trouble with schools is, they treat you as sheep. If God had meant us to be treated as sheep, He'd have created us as sheep.”

“I guess you have a point there.”

“But I did grow up in Paris, as it were. If you’re lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

Marisol glanced up in surprise, recognizing the quote.

“My favorite Hemingway quote from my favorite Hemingway book,” Tara explained. “Have you read it?”

“Have I read it? I watched him write it.”

“In Paris?”

“In Cuba. And Idaho. But I’m not keen on the book much.”

“Why ever not? It’s a masterpiece.”

Marisol sighed. “Because his fourth wife edited it after he died, and she made a botch of it, and mostly because she took out the lengthy apology he wrote to my grandmother, his first wife.”

“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?” He shook his head with a little smile. “Four wives, imagine. And I can’t be rid of the one.”

“You’re married?” Marisol said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. Tara looked like he was barely out of his teens.

“We’re estranged.”

“Oh…I’m sorry…”

“It’s for the best.” He looked at her very seriously. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Well then, there’s no point in telling you anything, is there?” He leaned toward her and laughed, and Marisol found it hard to dislike him. He had a divine laugh, and that husky, sophisticated, slightly drawly voice that made everything he said seem terribly witty. Marisol laughed along with him, until she heard Paul clearing his throat behind them.

“Arr ay, fuck face. If you’ve finished chatting up me girl, we’ll go rustle up some brekkie.” Paul held out his hand and Marisol took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

He reeled her in for a kiss, all the while holding their daughter in one arm. The sun gleamed off Paul’s dark hair and his eyes shone with love, and she was reminded of her own favorite quote from one of her Papa’s books:

“Why, darling, I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.”

When she first read those words, she was too young to understand the love she would someday feel for this magnetic, bigger than life Englishman. Now she understood.

When Paul drank and got high and made an ass of himself with his captain of the ship soliloquy and fell asleep on the floor with his socialite friends, she had a restless night, missing the solid feel of him lying next to her.

Even when he was only yards away, dancing in a wild and deranged fashion around the garden with their daughter, she missed the warmth of his laser beam attention focused on her.

Maybe he was sometimes in a party frame of mind when Marisol felt he should be in a family frame of mind. That was something they’d need to talk about. She didn’t know much about his friends, or about his life when he wasn’t with her. Should she be worried about the drugs he was taking? That was something else they’d have to work through. He had his faults…who didn’t? But when he smiled at her and kissed her and called her his girl, every cell in her body came alive.

‘I always miss you when you’re not in my arms,’ Paul had said only moments ago, sounding a bit like a character in one of her Papa’s books. For reasons she couldn't always fathom, she was the one he chose to come home to.  Even when they were months and miles apart, the chemistry hadn't waned. Life with Paul meant sex with abandon and long rambling conversations and never a dull moment. She smiled up at him, linked her arm through his and walked with him across the garden, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.


	11. Chapter 11

“Do you see how your Travel Line intersects your Fate Line, just here? This is an indication that your travels will present a life-changing experience. You have momentous decisions to make, but you are fortunate to have the support of family and friends. You must listen to your heart, my dear. Don’t be afraid to chance love, even though you have experienced heartbreak. A life of adventure awaits you.”

The older woman released Marisol’s palm, to a chorus of “hmmm’s” and “aahhhs” from the others gathered around the table. Marisol sat with her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap, like a Disney princess, a little stunned by the accuracy of Edie’s predictions.

Edie cupped both hands around her mug of tea with a placid expression. Barely five feet tall, her small round face was dwarfed by large black framed eyeglasses and the most enormous sun hat Marisol had ever seen.

Paul slid his hand across the table, palm up. “G’wan, Edie, give it to me straight. Does a life of fame and fortune await me?”

“Don’t be a smart arse,” Suki said. “This is serious.”

“Right. Only she lost me when she called Tara a manual laborer,” Paul hissed through clenched teeth.

Angie’s mother Edie was partially deaf and there wasn’t much chance of her overhearing, but she was a fairly competent lip reader. And, according to Angie, a gifted palm reader and fortune teller.

“Well, he is, isn’t he? He’s underneath that car more than he’s in it,” Suki said.

“That’s only since he’s tinkering with the engine to make it go faster,” Paul said. “Manual laborer my Scouse arse.”

“I see success is about to crown some venture you have undertaken or are about to undertake,” Edie announced, after examining Paul’s hand for a few silent seconds.

“You don't say!”

Angie turned from the counter where she was chopping carrots. “You’re being rude, Paul. Do you want Mum to read your palm or not?”

“My apologies, Edie, please continue.”

“But there seem to be difficulties closing in upon you in the near future. Don’t fear, good fortune outweighs the bad. Do you see how your Fate Line starts and then splits off from your Life Line? You are a self-made individual who developed aspirations young.”

“True, true,” Paul agreed.

“I see a marriage, possibly your own.”

Paul gasped theatrically. “Was it the two carat diamond on her finger gave it away?”

Angie glared in Paul’s direction and raised the knife, stabbing the air to illustrate her words. “It wouldn’t hurt you lads to be a bit more respectful when you’re in this house.”

Jim paused in the middle of pouring himself a cup of coffee. He calmly took the knife from Angie’s hand and laid it on the counter. “The little one sleeping?” he asked.

“Oh aye, poor wee thing was right knackered from all the commotion last night, wasn’t she?” Angie tutted and turned back to the counter.

“There will be a point when you will sacrifice your interests for the sake of others.” Edie shoved her glasses up her nose with one hand while rubbing her thumb across Paul’s palm. She glanced up at him, shook her head and clicked her tongue. She looked back at his palm.

“What is it?” Paul asked.

“Ach. These short little lines breaking your Heart Line? Tsk. Tsk. Even though you long for a family life, you have a wandering eye and a hard time remaining faithful—”

Paul curled his hand into a fist. “G’wan Edie, give me a break.”

“There’s quite a bit more to say about your Heart Line,” Edie said as he pulled his hand away.

“I think that’ll do.” He cleared his throat and got to his feet. “Dad, d’you reckon you could mind the baby while we go for a ride?”

“No trouble at all, Son.”

Paul reached for Marisol’s hand. “Come ‘ead, love. Sunshine is wasting.”

“Crazy old bird,” he whispered, leading Marisol through the house and out the front door, where Mike had organized motorbikes for everyone.

“Some of what she said seemed really accurate though.”

“That was a crock of shit.”

Five gleaming motorbikes were lined up in the drive. “Oh, look. My adventurous life is about to begin,” Marisol said.

“Don’t pay any mind to that pish,” Paul said. “That family is crackers.”

“We Macs have our share of madmen,” Mike reminded him. “Remember Uncle Will and his cargo of—“

“Arr ay, no need stirrin’ up tales of the family reprobate.”

A car full of girls drove by with windows rolled down. “We love you Paul!” someone yelled.

Paul did a little soft-shoe dance in the driveway for their benefit. Squeals of laughter could be heard as they drove away.

When Suki joined them, she stood slightly behind the group, swaying a little, a faraway look in her eyes, prompting Marisol to ask if she was okay.

Suki shook her head. “Do you think that old lady is for real?”

“Angie’s mom? I doubt it. She’s probably just checked out some palmistry books from the library. She didn’t say anything we didn’t already know.”

Suki frowned and bit her lip, her brows knit in evident distress.

“Why? What did she say to you?”

“Only that I would lose two people close to me within the next few years.”

Marisol caught her breath. “That’s terrible.”

“She told me to guard my heart.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Don’t pay her any mind.” Marisol patted Suki’s arm. “She’s loony. Paul already said.”

*

“It’s exactly ten years ago we lost Mum,” Mike said, seemingly out of nowhere.

Behind his dark shades, Paul showed no visible reaction. They were sitting on a hillside on the peninsula admiring the view, while Tara and Suki hiked hand in hand to the river.

“I’m so sorry.” Marisol gave Mike a long, pained look before breaking eye contact. “I never knew the exact date.”

“We thought the arl fella might be wanting a distraction this weekend,” Paul said, and Marisol realized why he’d suddenly wanted to race up to Liverpool yesterday after a long day in the studio. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“All Saints’ Day,” Mike said, in worshipful tones. “All her sins were washed away and her soul went straight to heaven, which it did, you can be sure.” His eyes looked a little glassy, which brought tears to Marisol’s eyes as well.

“Absolutely it did,” Marisol said, her voice a little choked up from hearing the reverence with which Mike spoke about his beloved mother.

“Dad told anyone who would listen that all he wanted was to join her on the other side,” Mike continued. “You ’n me cried ourselves to sleep for a month in the same single bed at Auntie Jin’s,” he reminded Paul.

Paul nodded, not looking at his brother. “All the McCartney kids were like nomads anyway, always staying at one another’s houses.” He lifted his chin and turned his face toward the river. His fingers tightened around hers. And Marisol had a small epiphany about this man with whom her destiny was linked.

When Paul was fourteen, his father had been so grief stricken after losing the love of his life that he’d told everyone he wanted to die. Little brother Mike, who was the sort of person everyone wanted to protect, had been visibly shattered as well. Paul had to be the strong one, for both his brother and his father. And he felt he had to be successful. And he had done it, in spades.

She watched his profile, her heart full of tenderness while she searched for something to say. Paul soon broke the silence.

“D’ you see those hills straight across the river? The Oggie shore cliffs? That's where I used to ride me bike. Not for the magnificent view, was it? Mike and I preferred to look down in the grass for lost money. You see, up on the cliffs is where the loving couples met to do their rolling round on the ground.”

Paul’s voice sounded oddly strained. Marisol supposed he was talking about whatever came into his head, to distract Mike from memories of their mother.

“Rolling ‘round?” she repeated.

“Right. You know, snogging. Never could see the sense in it when I was that age, but it did buy the sweets, all that silver falling from their pockets.”

“You were an enterprising lad.”

“Then we'd join up with some of the Garson lads and play chicken on our bikes riding down that sheer cliff,” Mike added, warming to the story.

“Wonder where those lads are now?” Paul said.

“Locked away, one would hope,” said Mike.

“Remember that time at the Inny when Ivan brought in his little pet mouse?”

“Yeah, yeah! Had it in his desk, and it was just peeking out, looking around. And here comes Mr. Wallace, the teacher, he’s lost in his lecture, reminiscing about 1066 and all that, and he parks his big bum right down on Ivan’s desk!” Michael made a raspberry sound. “The end of Ivan’s pet mouse.”

“Hmm. Wonder who’s playing the Empire this week,” Paul mused. He wiggled his fingers at Mike, who pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook one out for his brother. “Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Lonnie Donegan outside the Empire?”

“Only a hundred times.”

Paul lit the cigarette and took a long drag and blew out a cloud of smoke. He looked at Marisol. “When I was 14 I nipped down to the Empire during school lunch to try and catch a glimpse of Donegan. He was outside, scribbling notes of explanation to the employers of the factory girls who were hanging around waiting for him, long beyond their dinner hour because he was running late. That experience, more than anything, struck me as the right way for a star to behave toward fans.”

“He’s the man who started it for all the rest.” Mike looked over his shoulder, and when he saw that Tara and Suki were only just starting back from the river, he began another story in a hushed voice.

“Last time Tara came home with me, we went round that bar off Dale Street in the city centre, that no-women-allowed establishment, where all the men were doing their serious drinking. Tara had just had another screaming row with his ex-wife and he wanted to blow off steam. The place was buzzing. England had just won the World Cup, hadn’t we? Here we are, halfway to drunk as a brewer’s horse, when in strides Nicki, straight up to Tara, and she starts railing at him. And all these men who’d been safe in this environment for a million years saw this madness walking into their lives. Their mouths just dropped.”

“She’s got that feisty Irish temper, I reckon,” Paul said. “She makes a good eggs and chips, I'll tell you that for nothin'.”

Mike chuckled and pulled out another cigarette for himself. “I’ve never seen barmen move so fast in my life. They were over the counter and ‘Madam, how are you?’ and they got hold of her and escorted her out into the street.”

“That’s the night he lost his license?”

“Too right.” Mike shook his head sadly. “And that car of his. First time I drove it, we were on Finchley Road and he said ‘You have to have a go at it, Michael.’ The place was stuffed with traffic and I was terrified. Tara said, ‘Come on, Michael, put your foot down!’ so I did and the whole front end lifted up. Took off like a bullet.”

“It’s a beast,” Paul agreed. “Purrs like a kitten at traffic lights, then you slip it into gear and press the accelerator to the floor and it roars like a waking lion.”

Tara and Suki joined them, flushed and windblown from their hike. Tara was wearing an expensive looking long knitted wool scarf in shades of turquoise and green that fluttered behind him in the wind.

“I like your scarf,” Marisol said, when he dropped down on the grass beside her.

“Do you like it?” Tara immediately unwrapped the scarf and held it out. “Here you are then.”

“No, I didn’t mean for you to—“

“Darling. If you like it, it's yours.” Tara looped the scarf around Marisol’s neck and smiled sweetly.

“But I—“

Tara bought a finger to his lips. “Ssshhh. If you say any more I’ll have to tickle you.”

Marisol gave Paul a what-do-I-do? expression and he shrugged as if to say, _that’s just how he is._ “It looks right nice on you,” Paul said. So that was that.

She ran her fingers over the soft knit of her new scarf, still warm from Tara’s body heat and smelling of Salem menthol cigarettes, while the conversation turned to London, and fashion, and the changes that had taken place in the capital over the past few years. Coffee bars sprouting up like mushrooms, the night club scene exploding, dance floors featuring mirrored glass so all the smartly dressed dancers could check themselves out while they twisted and jived to black American R & B and the British Beat sound.

The men were soon reminiscing about the Ad Lib, where Tara had met Mike and later Paul.

“Here we are on a random winter night,” Tara said. “Terence Stamp is about, catching up with his old housemate, Michael Caine, and in walk John Lennon and Paul McCartney, like a pair of current day Francis Drakes, home from conquering America, and they go into a huddle with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, soon to make their own crossing.”

“You remember the Ad Lib, don’t you love?” Paul turned to Marisol. “You showed up in the winter of ’64 I believe it was, and favored me with a dance or two until your other English boyfriend showed up.” His teasing smile softened the words, but Marisol gave him a punch in the arm anyway. Then she leaned against his shoulder and smiled up at him.

“There has never been any other English boyfriend.”

He pushed her sunglasses onto her head, cupped her face with his hands and closed the distance between their lips in a lingering kiss that only stopped after Mike uttered a protracted groan.

“Are they always like this?” Tara hooked his thumb at Paul and Marisol.

“Can’t keep their hands off each other,” Mike confirmed.

“They must have incredible sex together,” Tara mused.

“Oh my god. We can hear you.” Marisol shoved her sunglasses back over her eyes, certain she must be blushing, and fought the urge to bury her face in Paul’s shoulder.

Completely unfazed and not bothering to confirm or deny Tara’s assumption about their wild sex life, Paul blithely continued the conversation. “Sorry we missed your 21st, mate. We all wanted to come, but the album, you know.”

Tara waved a hand. “But the album. I understand you were involved in a little side project called _Revolver_.”

“Soundtrack of my summer,” Suki said, her face lighting up. “My flatmate played it all the time. Rudolf Nureyev was performing somewhere nearby. He used to walk by our flat at two o’clock every morning. We’d hang out the window lusting after him, with _Revolver_ playing in the background. He had the best ass we’d ever seen.”

Everyone laughed, and Marisol laughed loudest, grateful that Suki’s spacey commentary had drawn the attention away from her sex life.

“ _Revolver, Blonde on Blonde_ and _Pet Sounds_.” Tara ticked them off on his fingers. “All released in one summer. Mark my words, they’ll be talking about those three albums twenty years from now.”

“The era of the album has arrived,” Paul said.

“Michael here came to my party though,” Tara announced. “And he came carrying bottles of Guinness. Do you find that somewhat odd?”

“The birds I was with brought it for washing their hair. It was that sort of party.” Mike looked suddenly wistful. “I remember walking across the tarmac at Dublin Airport and looking over my shoulder at the other passengers. It was like Swinging London on an away day. Then there was a harrowing taxi ride into the valley and Tara met us all at the door with a thumb of hash and a pipe. That’s when the party started.”

“Needs must,” Tara said, with a wistful smile.

“A dangerous number of irresponsible young people in the grandeur of this exotic old castle in the middle of the Irish countryside. It was extraordinary.” Mike handed Paul another cigarette and pointed at Tara. “There was a guy dressed in Nigerian robes at your party, like a prince, I think he was a prince, wasn’t he?”

“He’s a Conga player I know from the Scotch.”

“No, I’m quite sure he was a prince. He looked magnificent,” Mike remembered. "He kept saying ‘ob la di ob la da, I drink again I die,’ and then he’d pour a little whisky on these incredibly expensive carpets.” Mike laughed at the memory. “I went up and said, ‘mate, what the fuck are you doing?’ and he just smiled and said ’In Africa one must pay homage to Mother Earth. Ob la di ob la da, to the earth we must return’ he said, and poured a little more whisky on the carpet.”

 

As the conversation went on, Marisol began to see why Paul and Mike were fascinated with Tara. In spite of, or maybe because of his remarkable life, everything about him was gentle and easy going. You couldn’t not like him.

Before long Tara pulled out his silver flask. Whisky made the rounds, and soon they were singing together loudly like mates walking home from a pub.

When the flask was empty, Marisol glanced over to see Tara rolling a perfect joint. He held it up. “Durban Poison, imported in sherry bottles.” He held it out to Marisol. “It smells like sherry, darling.”

Marisol took a sniff. “Mmm. Surely it does.” But she shook her head when the grass was offered, because someone needed to not be stoned when they got back home to their baby.

“Do you think we should check on the baby soon?” she whispered to Paul.

“The baby is fine. As dad would say, life is just a lavatory bowl of cherries,” Paul announced, and Marisol narrowed her eyes at him, while all the others laughed like it was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard.

By late afternoon, the wind from the river was uncomfortably cold, and everyone made to go home, but Paul told the others that he and Marisol would catch up with them later.

The two of them sat together on the cool grass, Paul’s legs around hers, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her for warmth.

Marisol leaned back against him, relaxing for the first time in days, and was soon mesmerized by the contrail of a jet winging its way toward America. Below it, another contrail indicated a jet headed to Europe…Amsterdam, Marisol decided. As always, she pictured being in the cockpit and watching the other jet zip past slightly below and to the left, and she imagined how this little peninsula looked from 30,000 feet in the sky.

“Do you ever get homesick?” Paul asked, as if reading her mind.

“Not homesick exactly.” She thought about it. “I feel unsettled though.”

Paul’s arms tightened around her, resting just below her breasts. “Well we are unsettled, aren’t we? We’re in that no man’s land between dating and marriage.”

“No man’s land?”

“And we’re between houses at the moment. And the Beatles are between LPs. It’s a strange time, I don’t really know what to do with myself.”

“I can imagine. It must be strange not having to record anything or perform or give an interview.”

“Yeah.” He blew out a ragged breath. “I had that dream again last night.”

“What dream?”

“I’m sure I’ve told you. Since I was a kid I’ve had a recurring nightmare of my mum being on a bus and holding out her hand, and me, my legs moving like lightning and I'm staying in the same spot, just out of reach of her hand.”  
“Oh, sweetheart.” Marisol turned in his lap, rested her head on his shoulder and rubbed the back of his neck in a soothing way. “You’ve never told me about that dream.”

“It’s more of a nightmare. And I had it last night, first time in yonks. Guess it was from bein’ back home and all.”

She lifted her head and stared into his beautiful round eyes that were both dreamily wistful and precisely penetrating. Was it any wonder he drank and took drugs and wanted to party? Not only because it was the anniversary of his mother's death. Who but the other Beatles could imagine the pressures of his life?

“Oh, Paul. If I’d known the reason we’d come back here I’d have slept beside you on the floor with all your stoned friends, even with the poor dog tripping in the back garden.”

She pulled his face to hers and kissed him. “I love you,” she said softly when the kiss ended.

“I love you,” he responded automatically. “What will we do for our holiday?”

She blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Everyone else is out of the country. John’s in Spain, with Neil, filming his movie. Did you see the news? He's had his hair chopped. He looks like a geography teacher or summat instead of the Revolutionary Voice of Rock ‘n Roll.”

Marisol chuckled at the idea of John as a mild mannered geography teacher. She'd seen the headlines— “Lennon Shorn,” “Mop Top Chopped,” “Lennon Acts Without Locks.”

“Where are the others?”

"Ritchie and Mo just nipped off to visit John, and George and Pattie are off to India to study the sitar and yoga.”

“Do you miss them? You've never been this long without seeing each other.”

“It's a bit odd. It's like we're war buddies home from Vietnam and we've gone our separate ways after having been forced to be together for so long. So what will we do?”

She tilted her head and considered him. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m thinking southern France. The Loire Valley.”

“The wine region? Now you're speaking my language.”

“So it's settled. We’ll leave in the morning.”

“You mean leave from here?”

“Exactly right.”

“At the drop of a hat?”

“I’ll ring Peter Brown to sort it.”

“I could fly us!” Marisol suggested, warming to the idea.

Paul grimaced. “I don’t think so, love.”

“Why not?”

“Because A, you don’t have that sort of license, and 2, I’d be scared shitless.”

“Paul…”

He giggled, and she wondered how high he was. “I’m just sending you up. B is because I want to have the car in France, so we’ll have to take a car ferry or summat.”

“What about Melody?”

“My dad will mind her. He’s already said.”

Marisol sighed and focused on the grassy cliffs over his left shoulder. “She's a baby, Paul. She needs to be with us.”

“And she will be with us. For the rest of our lives. Don't you think we need a little time to ourselves, now and again?”

He moved his head so that he was in her line of vision, and he arched a perfect brow at her. His cheeks looked chapped from the wind and his lips looked plump and kissable and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to spend the next week in his arms in a medieval castle in France. It was good between them. Not something she wanted to let slip through her fingers. “I guess Mrs. A wouldn’t mind keeping the dogs a little while longer.”

“We’ve never been on a proper holiday together,” Paul pointed out, “other than a coupla days in Scotland, years ago.”

Marisol sighed, considering her words. She had his full attention now, so she plunged ahead with the real cause of her anxiety. “Sweetheart. About last night. The drugs and everything. Should I be worried?”

“Course not. I'll share with you. What's mine is yours.” He rolled his eyes and made a silly face, but his grin melted away when he saw she wasn’t smiling back. “C’mon, love. Don’t be soft. My mum was a nurse. I’m not going to do anything to damaging. Everyone else says I’m a square.”

“It’s just that…Sometimes it seems you’re in this sort of party mindset. You’re not in a family mindset.”

“That's ludicrous. You don’t know how many invitations I turn down, to be with you and Mel.”

“Wow. We’re flattered.”

Paul sighed and pressed his forehead to hers. “I hear what you’re saying, love. We’ll talk about it, if we must.”

He suddenly leaned back, swept her off his lap, stood and pulled her to her feet. She'd no sooner gotten her balance when he lifted her off her feet and swung her through the air, on the top of the hill, the salty cold ocean breeze whipping through their hair. “We’ll talk about it while we’re rolling around in a big round bed at a chateaux in the Loire Valley, drunk on Red Bordeaux!”

Marisol laughed at his exuberance. He'd been all around the world, feted by dignitaries and movie stars, adored by crowds of thousands, yet he was ecstatic at the thought of taking her across the Channel. They needed this, Marisol thought. She needed this, to feel 21 again, instead of 41. To have fun with her gorgeous fiance, without worrying about the baby’s sleeping pattern and what sort of drugs Paul was taking and what would happen if the press found out she was a harlot and her general uneasiness about life in London and how she would fit in to Paul’s world. She needed a holiday with this man.

“Vive la France!” she cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted at the sky, and they both laughed as a startled sparrowhawk squawked and flapped away from the top of a nearby tree.

They laughed and kissed and ran down the hill, like kids let out of school just before the Christmas holidays, with Paul filling her head full of all the things they were going to do the moment he got her alone in France. France! The Loire Valley! The very words sounded full of magic, and exactly what they both needed. With Paul's hand clutching hers and the wind in her hair and her new knitted scarf flapping out behind them, she couldn't remember when she'd last felt so happy and free.


	12. Chapter 12

[](https://imgur.com/NXeV18L)

 

“Excusez-moi belle femme.”

The voice was male and French, and so close to her ear that Marisol nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled to face whoever was invading her space and took a couple of steps back.

“Je viens d'arriver dans cette ville. Pourrais-tu me montrer le chemin de ton lit?” the French stranger continued, and he stood there with one dark brow arched over the top of his large round wire spectacles. 

Her gaze traveled from the top of his carefully parted, slicked back hair, over his long blue overcoat to the tips of his Charles Jourdan leather oxfords. She recognized the eyebrows. And the shoes, because she’d just flown across the Channel next to them. She had to admit, the mustache was a bit of a shock. 

“I have no idea what you just said.”

He gave her a “mwaa-mwaa” air kiss next to her right ear and then her left. His mustache tickled and she shivered a little. 

“I said ‘hello beautiful lady, care to accompany me in France’?”

“I’d love to, Monsieur, but we must be quick. My fiancé will be back any moment.”

“Very funny.”

Marisol reached up and touched the authentic looking facial hair sprouting above his lips. “How did you grow a mustache in the ten minutes since we did our passports?”

“Because I’m just that virile and manly. Ça ne fait rien. You already know this.”

“I didn’t even know you spoke French.”

Paul lifted her carry on bag from her shoulder. “Lennon taught me a few useful phrases.”

“This is going to be the best holiday ever.”

“The best honeymoon ever. Let’s find the car.”

They’d been on the road since before dawn, driving Paul’s Aston Martin DB5 to Lydd airport where they boarded a Bristol Superfreighter to Le Touquet in northern France. The cars went in the belly of the cargo plane and the drivers went upstairs for a drink during the bumpy 45 minute flight. The other passengers, mostly French executives, seemed oblivious to the presence of a famous Beatle. The moment they cleared Customs, Paul had ducked into a rest room to don his disguise. 

“I just want to be normal,” Paul said. That was their goal on this holiday, or honeymoon, as Paul described it. To be normal. As normal as you can be driving through France in an Aston Martin DB5 fitted with the latest and best speakers and a new top of the line floating record player that stayed level even when the car hit bumps.

With the windows down, they blasted the latest hits from England and America and sang in their bluesiest voices along with Spencer Davis and friends. “Cause no, no, nobody knows you, nobody knows you when you’re down and out.”

Paul added his own percussion and played mock piano on the steering wheel and Marisol took the new 8 mm movie camera from around his neck and filmed him. Camera shy he was not. In fact, if he was ever blue, Marisol suspected that the sight of a camera pointed in his direction would instantly cheer him. He made exaggerated faces and generally hammed it up for her as the countryside passed in a blur through the viewfinder.

“Right side of the road,” Marisol reminded him as the car veered to the left. She turned off the camera, for the sake of their safety. “We don’t want to be frog-marched down to station the by the local gendarmes do we?”

“No local gendarme can catch this baby.”

“But if they did, you wouldn’t get off with an autograph this time. They’d never recognize you.”

“Not bad, eh?” He checked the rear view mirror and made an adjustment to a Vaseline coated lock. “I tried it out on the lads in Stockholm in ’64. Picked up a camera and went around and knocked on the guys’ doors. I knocked on George’s and he came out, quite grumpy, you know? He says ‘Yeah?’ and I’d never seen him like that before. I said, ‘Peresi, peresi?’ in a made-up foreign language, like I couldn’t speak English. George said, ‘What do you want? What do you want?’ quite curt with me. He was getting quite nasty actually, so I just changed the accent, ‘Peresi, it’s Paul speaking, can’t you tell?’ in my real accent. And he goes ‘Fuckin’ hell!’”

“It’s the glasses, I think. And the mustache. You look like a lonely poet with all that.”

“Fooled Brian too. He was in the hotel bath with his door open when I wandered in. I had a camera around my neck and a little card I was flashing. Brian said, ‘yes, can I help you?’ I pulled out the card and said ‘Peresi? Mr. Epstein? Photo?’”

Marisol was giggling at his accent and he paused the story to grin at her.

“Wait. Why is Brian in the tub with the door open?”

“Who knows. It’s Brian. So he says ‘No, no, no, not now. Can’t you see I’m in the—’ and I said ‘Brian, can’t you tell it’s me?’ Freaked him out.” He gestured to the bag at her feet. “Do me an apple, would you love?”

Marisol pulled two apples from the bag and rubbed one on her shirt. “I can’t wait to be normal with you. I want to see everything,” she said. “I want to be the best normal tourists two humans can be.”

“We will. And we’ll eat all the appropriate food and pose for all the shots and shop for just the right doodads to commemorate each and every stop. And we’ll stop anywhere that catches our fancy.”

“I’ve never left on a vacation with no itinerary and no accommodations booked.”

“All the better to amble unhindered wherever the spirit leads us.” 

She handed him the polished apple. “I don’t even know where I am but I’m fairly sure I can’t pronounce it.”

Their gazes met and held. “You, my love, are exactly where you’re meant to be.” He winked at her and bit into the apple.

Marisol settled back against the leather seat and sighed with contentment as she shined her own apple. “Traveling to another country where I don’t speak the language makes me feel five years old again. You can’t read anything, you have only the most basic sense of how anything works, especially the money, and you can’t even reliably cross a street without endangering your life.”

“So your life becomes a series of good guesses or bad choices. Speaking of choices, shall we take the coastal route?”

“Of bloody course we should!” Marisol said, and crunched into her apple.

Paul laughed. “I need to teach you to swear properly. Although living with me might be the best training.” He pointed to the glove box. “Fetch the map, love.”

Marisol unfolded the giant road map of France and stared at it for a silent moment. She flipped it over, trying to orient herself. “Where did you get this map? It's not even in English.”

“I bought the whole set in Germany,” he said, sounding proud of himself. “They’re made in Switzerland, with all the obsessive attention to detail and exorbitant cost that that entails.”

“It seems so strange to live on a continent where people an hour away from you in every direction are all speaking different languages.” She looked out the windscreen at the endless green hills dotted by occasional farmhouses. “I haven't seen a road sign in ages. Where do you suppose we are?”

Paul tossed the apple core out the window. “About forty kilometers outside Where the Fuck, France, I should think.”

Marisol rotated the map again. “According to the Swiss, we’re somewhere south and east of the land of Britannia. Is this in Latin?”

They spent an unproductive fifteen minutes on the side of the road with the map unfolded on the hood of the car while Paul chainsmoked the Gitanes he had bought at the border and Marisol marveled aloud how they’d managed to get lost so quickly. Finally a car approached, the driver slowing to gawk at their fancy English car, and Paul waved him to a stop. The elderly man smoked his pipe and seemed unimpressed with Paul’s efforts to speak his native tongue. Paul grabbed the map, folded it to show the approximate area they were looking for, and said hopefully, “Normandy?” The man grunted and waved a hand at the road ahead and stabbed at the map a couple of times and growled something in a language Marisol had never heard before while Paul nodded.

“What did he say?” she asked Paul, when the man had driven off in a cloud of dust.

“Fuck if I know.” He attempted to fold the map in vain while Marisol drew little hearts with her finger in the dust on the hood of his beautiful car.

They ended up in what had to be one of the most beautiful villages in France, situated on a hill overlooking a river and an ancient priory. In the hour they spent wandering the small maze of quiet, cobbled streets, around the grounds of the ancient Roman church and admiring the gorgeous valley and river views and crumbly medieval buildings, they saw exactly four other people. Three men sitting at a table outside a bar. And one lady arranging chairs in front of a neighboring cafe. There were no tourists here appreciating the view. No open top buses. No souvenir shops with postcard carousels. Not even a village sign welcoming you to the most beautiful village in France.

“What this place lacks in people, it makes up for in doors,” Paul said, snapping yet another picture of a medieval door.

“If that’s your thing,” Marisol said. She looked up and down the shuttered street, half expecting to see chickens strutting in the road and peasants pushing wagons full of plague victims. “It's almost eerily peaceful.”

“I rather like it, in a thank-fuck-that-I-don’t-have-to-live-here sort of way. Was that your stomach growling?”

She nodded. Hand in hand, they wound their way back to the cafe where they had seen the woman setting out chairs for visitors who probably never came. 

A menu was produced and Paul ordered for them in French, which resulted in the most delicious dish of scalloped potatoes with cream and eggs and bacon, accompanied by perfect, crusty loaves of bread. They finished off a bottle of Chenin Blanc, soaking up the peace and quiet, enjoying having the most beautiful village in France all to themselves. Because how often does that happen?

Paul had managed a halting conversation with the proprietor of the cafe and he seemed to know exactly where he was going. Just over thirty minutes later he roared up a long driveway that meandered through pastures full of cows. At the top of a hill a charming fountain gurgled in the cobblestone courtyard of what looked like a huge white farmhouse surrounded by immaculate gardens.

“We’ll stop here tonight,” Paul decided.

“But where are we?”

“Does it matter?”

Marisol had to admit it didn’t. 

“Bon jour, Madam,” Paul said to the proprietress. He leaned on the counter and oozed his patented Paul McCartney brand of charm. “Could you do us your best room? It’s our honeymoon, you see, and your fine establishment was recommended by our friends in the village.”

To Marisol's surprise, there was a room available, evidently just the sort of choice accommodation Paul requested. The woman behind the desk held out a pen and a form and smiled at him. Her greying hair was stylishly cut with one side longer than the other. He said a few words in his pigeon French and threw the word “honeymoon” around a few more times. He may have even winked at her, Marisol couldn’t be sure. “Bonne nuit,” the woman said with a broad smile when she handed him the key.

A small gray cat sat across the hall from their room, contentedly licking her paws. She must have been waiting for them to open the door, because she darted inside and jumped up on a cushion in the bay window. The room was tiny, charming, and oh-so-French.

“Bonjour chat,” Paul said. He glanced around briefly. “Make yourself comfortable, love, I’m off to hide the car.”

“You’re doing what?” Marisol’s purse slid off her shoulder onto the bed.

“What good is this disguise if I leave the DB5 parked out front? I’ll park it somewhere far away and walk back.”

“Paul…wait…”

The door thudded closed. 

Marisol looked around the room and didn’t see a telephone. Grabbing her purse, she waited until she felt sure Paul was in his car on the way to his hiding spot, and she made her way downstairs to the reception area.

“Bonjour,” Marisol said to the woman at the desk. “Do you think I could place a call to Angleterre? And charge it to our chambre?”

The woman looked at her blankly for a few seconds, then pointed to an alcove with a straight chair and a squat black rotary telephone. Apparently her smiles were only meant for Paul. 

Marisol tried for ten minutes to place the call, dealing with a succession of operators. Finally the landlady took the receiver her from her, jiggled the buttons on the set up and down a few times, spoke a few words of French and gave the handset back to Marisol, motioning for her to dial the number.

It sounded like Angie was in the next room. Marisol could even hear her baby, and possibly Ruth, happily gurgling and chattering in the background. “Oh, she’s marvelous,” Angie assured her. “Didn’t shed a tear after you left. Doesn’t even know you’re gone.”

“How lovely,” Marisol said, trying to sound happy about it. Of course she wanted Melody to be independent and able to function without being attached to one of her parents. But shouldn’t she at least notice the most important person in her life had vanished into the depths of France, possibly never to find her way out? She chewed on her thumbnail while Angie babbled about their day and how happy Melody apparently was to be rid of them.

Mindful of the French woman keeping an eye on her from across the room and frequently checking her watch, Marisol thanked Angie and ended the call as quickly as she could. On her way back to the room she tried not to dwell on the fact that this was the first night she’d ever spent away from her baby, who didn’t even notice she was gone. She and Paul needed this alone time. She envisioned the night ahead in Paul’s arms, the romantic words he would whisper in her ear, the tender way they would make love on their pre-wedding honeymoon, and she practically sighed with pleasure just thinking about it.

The cat glared at her when she opened the door. 

“What’s up cat? Er…chat?” 

She crossed the room, intending to have a little cuddle session with this friendly French kitty to ease her baby blues. The cat had other ideas. She rose and rubbed herself against the curtains and uttered a single meow. Marisol pushed the curtains aside and found a lovely private terrace overlooking what must be the most beautifully tended gardens in all of France, lit by twinkling white lights. As soon as she opened the doors to the terrace the cat ran out. Who could blame her? It looked like a fairy tale. Marisol was living inside a fairy tale, with her prince on his way, and they would have the most romantic night in the history of romance.

She’d just finished a bubble bath in the tiny tub and was drying herself off when there was a brisk knock at the door.

She tightened her satin kimono and answered the door to find her handsome and windblown fiancé, his hands full with a bottle of champagne and a tray of fresh strawberries.

“Gotta love the French,” Paul said, bursting into the room. “The woman at the desk practically tackled me, she was so eager to give us the full honeymoon package.”

“I think you said the word honeymoon about fifty times when we were checking in.”

He set the gifts on the table and bit into a strawberry. “Mmm. S’good.” He shed his overcoat, turning to find her. The room seemed smaller with him in it. His cheeks were flushed from his walk, but he radiated warmth. They looked at the bed, and at each other, filled with little pulses of excitement at finding themselves in a new place, together.

“Come here,” he growled, pulling off his sweater, kicking off his loafers, tripping out of his trousers as he stalked her.

He was on her in a flash with his strawberry flavored mouth, kissing her lips, her ear, her neck and lower, his hands moving inside her robe, pushing it off her shoulders until it was a navy satin pool on the wooden floor, and he was looming over her in his red briefs, edging her back towards the bed. So much for romancing her.

“Champagne sounds nice…” she started, then ended on a moan when his mouth found her breast.

He lifted his head. “I've been fantasizing about this moment for the past three nights while I was sleeping alone at Rembrandt. I think that's enough foreplay, don't you?”

He gave her a playful shove and she felt herself falling backward, then bouncing on the softest bed in this part of France, gasping in mock protest when Paul practically launched himself on top of her.

They made love, rougher than they had in the past. Paul tossed her around on the bed, flipping her onto her stomach and thrusting into her, treating her body like it was his. And she loved it, it made her wild.

He pulled her ass up to his hips and thrust more deeply than she'd felt him before, to the point that it hurt in the most amazing way.

She muffled a moan into a pillow. He jerked the pillow away and shoved it beneath her, lifting her higher so that he could go even deeper.

"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Get yourself there, because I can't hold back much longer.”

She couldn’t move. Her hands were trapped beneath them. 

He grew impatient and reached between her legs, playing with her with his fingertips until she was gasping and wriggling against his hand. She cried out, then she fell quiet. His thrusts increased until he groaned and grew still, collapsing on top of her and breathing heavily into her neck.

“Fuck, baby…that was…” He rolled off of her, smoothing his hand over her bare back, their faces inches apart. “That was fucking amazing.”

Still catching her breath, she merely nodded and stared into his eyes.

Paul lifted his head. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“I’m wondering when I might have some of that champagne.”

For some reason Paul found this hilarious, and the sound of his giggling made her laugh, and they rolled around on the tiny bed and laughed until their stomachs hurt. And then he uncorked the champagne and they toasted each other and vowed that they would always be this happy.

They fed each other strawberries and grew giddy with champagne and sticky with fruit. Paul wandered in for a bath and was now crawling back in bed, his skin warm and glowing.

“This day turned out rather well considering we didn't have a plan and can't read the Swiss Latin map,” Marisol mused. “And we’re irretrievably lost.”

“You know what your problem is? You're thinking like a pilot. You think the destination is the point. The point is the journey.”

“Is that how a musician thinks?”

“Maybe. But I’ll tell you one thing for nothin’. We are exactly where we're meant to be.” He stretched across her and switched off the lamp.

They lay under a white down duvet. His body felt warm and smooth, and everything felt lazy and quiet. He rolled her to one side and spooned her. His breath tickled her ear.

“Tomorrow we’ll find Paris,” he mumbled sleepily.

Marisol snuggled against him, waiting for sleep to claim her. Their daughter was safe with her grandparents, no one knew who they were or wanted anything from them, not even an autograph, and her mind was blissfully free from worry.

Lost or not, she would happily roam the French countryside for weeks at Paul’s whim, even if it meant letting champagne and strawberries go to waste while they had rough sex and fell asleep exhausted.

His breathing deepened. She was filled with contentment. He was right. She was exactly where she was meant to be.


	13. Chapter 13

_The liberation of the bar of the Ritz Hotel in Paris by the writer Ernest Hemingway, as the French capital was freed from its Nazi occupiers, is the stuff of legend._

  
_Hemingway, a war correspondent for the American "Collier's" magazine who went on to win the Nobel prize for literature in 1954, was embedded with US 4th Division troops that landed on the Normandy beaches on June 6, 1944._

  
_Over the next two months he stuck with the foot soldiers as they marched towards Paris in support of the French 2nd Armoured Division, which entered the capital on August 25._

  
_Hemingway had a special attachment to the luxurious Ritz hotel, and its bar, where he had spent a great deal of time before the war._

  
_"When I dream of afterlife in heaven, the action always takes place in the Paris Ritz," Hemingway was to say._

  
_"He did not talk about anything else," one Resistance fighter said, but "to be the first American in Paris and liberate the Ritz."_

  
_Hemingway managed, using his name and with the help of the American army commanded by US General George S. Patton, to wrangle a meeting with French commander General Philippe Leclerc._

_His request: to be given enough men to go and liberate the Ritz's bar._

  
_To the writer's surprise he got a frosty reception and was dismissed._

  
_But Hemingway persevered and on August 25, dressed in his correspondent's uniform, he arrived in a commandeered jeep with a machine gun and a group of Resistance fighters at the hotel, on Paris' lovely Place Vendome._

  
_He burst into the hotel and announced that he had come to personally liberate it and its bar, which had been requisitioned in June 1940 by the Nazis and occupied by German dignitaries, including on occasion Hermann Goering and Joseph Goebbels._

  
_The manager of the hotel, Claude Auzello, approached him and Hemingway asked: "Where are the Germans? I have come to liberate the Ritz."_

  
_"Monsieur," he replied, "They left a long time ago. And I can not let you enter with a weapon."_

  
_Hemingway put the gun in the jeep and came back to the bar where he is said to have run up a tab for 51 dry Martinis._  
_—thelocalfrance_

  
* * * * *

 

Paul and Marisol found Paris the next afternoon. The Paris Ritz to be exact.

“My Papa loved it here!” Marisol exclaimed.

“So I’ve heard,” Paul said. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the gleaming white marble reception desk and took note of the attendant’s name tag. “Bon jour, Francois. Your best room for me and my lovely bride.”

“Bon Jour, Monsieur. Mais bien sur.”

Francois was tall and dark and attractive and full of Gallic charm and spoke with the most beautiful accent Marisol had ever heard. No wonder they called French the Language of Love. And Paris the City of Love. And Francs the Currency of Love. Marisol sighed with happiness.

Francois pushed paperwork toward Paul but his eyes were on Marisol. “You are American?”

“Guilty.” He was smiling at her, so she smiled back. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said, watching women in fur coats coming in and out of the glass doors with little dogs under their arms. “So ridiculously French and pretty,” she added softly.

“Not as beautiful as you, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh! Thank you…I mean…merci!”

Paul cleared his throat and held out his hand. “The key please.”

“But of course, Monsieur.” Francois glanced at the paperwork and looked again at Marisol, his dark eyes twinkling. “But only three nights in Paris?”

“You know us Americans,” Paul drawled. “Very short attention spans.” He rapped again on the counter. “Do us a nice room, Frank, with the biggest bed you’ve got.” Then he looked directly in Marisol’s eyes. “We’ll be spending a lot of time in the room.”

“Sshh,” Marisol said, bringing a finger to her lips.

“Enjoy your stay at the Ritz,” Francois said in beautifully accented English. He smiled at them both and handed Paul the largest brass key Marisol had ever seen.

They practically skipped to the elevator, past the sparkling white grand piano and through the royal blue and gold-themed 18th century French lobby that looked like a palace.

Marisol leaned against the wall of the elevator and fanned herself. “Ooh la la. Is it warm in here? I wonder if all the French are as charming as Francois.”

“What kind of bullshit name is Francois?”

“Are you jealous of the sexy Frenchman?” Marisol smiled innocently up at him.

“Of that Gallic rooster? He’s lucky I didn’t deck him for drooling all over you.”

“There’s even a chandelier in the elevator. I can’t wait to see our room.”

A bellhop dressed in a cool gray suit led them to their room, deposited their luggage and held out his hand until Paul had deposited the requisite number of French coins.

Marisol could hardly wait for the door to close behind him so she could dash into the bathroom to confirm that it did indeed have the legendary crystal taps and gold swan faucets and original pull chains by the bath to ring for a maid or valet to bring them warm towels. The bathroom was entirely white and marble, with its own chandelier, and the bathtub was small but deep.

“We have our own fireplace!” Back in the bedroom, she slid open a leather lined wardrobe drawer, sighing in appreciation. There was a pot of fresh white geraniums on the table, and the room glittered with gold fixtures and frames.

Paul opened the French doors to reveal a private Juliet balcony with a fairytale view of the green lush park of the French Ministry of Justice, where primary school children were happily playing in the sunshine.

“I love it here!” Marisol announced, twirling around the room.

“You should.” Paul picked up a room service menu. “Have you seen these prices? I’ll be a pauper by the time we check out.”

“Sshh. It’s gauche to mention money when one is staying at the Ritz.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you. I’m so happy.”

“So am I, love. And I’m happy you’re happy.” He wandered into the bathroom whistling. Marisol picked up the white and gold princess style phone to check for a dial tone, and as she was waiting for an operator she heard music playing: Irving Berlin’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz.” She hung up the phone and fell backwards onto the bed, gazing at the sparkling crystal chandelier and wondering how the rest of her life could possibly live up to this week.

She heard water running in the bathroom and knew that Paul would soon emerge in a fluffy white robe emblazoned with Paris Ritz, wanting sex.

And after that? They’d explore the City of Love together. Could her life be any more surreal and dreamlike?

* * * * *

“What shall we do next?” Paul asked, lazily blowing a stream of cigarette smoke in the general direction of the open balcony doors.

Marisol was flat on her back, running her hand over the velvety white duvet cover, catching her breath after their romp in the bed. “My Papa used to go to this little cafe in Saint-Germain des Pres where he’d people watch and write.”

“Then we’ll go to Saint-Germain des Pres to people watch and write. Then what?”

“Shakespeare and Company, on the Left Bank.”

“Obviously.”

“And I want to go somewhere high, for the view,” she suggested.

Paul made a face. “Not the Eiffel Tower. I’ve already been through that with John. Unless you make reservations months in advance you are merde-out-of-luck. Have to queue for hours. Peut-etre cinq heures. But I know another place with a view.”

“Okay…and what do you want to do after that?” Marisol asked.

“Eat stinky cheese and macarons. With flasks of wine.”

Marisol sat up. “Did you say wine? What are we waiting for?”

 

Outside the Ritz a woman in a fur coat was coaxing a poodle to go doo-doo on the sidewalk.

“Watch your step,” Paul reminded Marisol. The French loved their Fifis and Fidos. You’d often see dogs sitting on laps at sidewalk bistros. But they didn’t seem to love picking up after their pets, and doggy doo-doo was everywhere. Marisol soon learned to scan the road ahead lest she step in a steaming mess of merde.

But the sun was shining and the air was hot and smelled like sweat and croissants and perfume, with only an underlying scent of doggy doo-doo. Swarming around them were men, women, children, teenagers, and tourists, everyone on the move.

Both men and women wore thin, gauzy scarves around their necks. The women also wore big sunglasses and dresses and tight suits, sandals and heels.

And everywhere Marisol looked people were kissing. An older couple fondling each other on a park bench, women and men greeting each other with cheek kisses, a teenage couple pressed against each other in an alcove.

They strolled down the Champs-Élysées past perfumeries and haute couture shops and sidewalk cafes that led straight to the Arc de Triomphe, commissioned by Napoleon Bonaparte, where Paul insisted Marisol would have her magnificent Paris view.

Marisol had been here before. Shopping along the Champs-Élysées was the highlight of any trip to Paris. But she’d never been able to envision dashing across the roundabout, dodging traffic from twelve roads all converging at the huge monument that had stood watch over Paris for almost 200 years.

Paul knew exactly what to do. He led them into what looked like a subway entrance, which Marisol discovered was a tunnel to the Arc. When they popped up on the other side, Paul asked the most important question. “How long is the wait?”

“Dix minutes,” the woman at the museum answered.

“That’s ten, right?” said Marisol.

Paul nodded.

“So you’ve decided against hiring a helicopter to take us straight to a private dinner on the Eiffel Tower?”

“No helicopters,” Paul said, pulling her into the line. “You’ll like this.”

They followed a family of Swedes with young children up the 280-step circular staircase which went up and around and around and around. The stones were square and spiral, with a brown metal railing on the left side. As they neared the top, looking over the railing was like staring into a vertigo-inducing abyss.

At the top, Marisol collapsed against a wall, out of breath, her calves aching. She heaved an arm across her forehead dramatically. “How are we going to get down? Please tell me there’s a fireman’s pole.”

Paul put his arm around her. “No fireman’s pole, no helicopters.”

But there was a breeze, and a spiked railing, and it felt like they were in the middle of the world with all the heavily trafficked streets of Paris shooting out in every direction from where they were standing. The Champs-Élysées was a torrent of trees and little cars and colorful, tiny people scurrying every which way. On one side of the Arc they saw parks and towering office buildings and the brilliant white Basilica of Sacre-Coeur at the top of a hill, and on the other side the Eiffel Tower rose in the distance above the rooftops of Paris.

They spent a few minutes laughing at the crazy traffic circling around the base of the Arc. There were no lines as the twelve grand boulevards came together, and it seemed to be anyone’s guess how to get off on the street you wanted to be on. Marisol held her breath as a very brave or possibly insane woman on a bicycle navigated her way through eight lanes of cars.

Paul took the camera from around his neck and smiled and gestured at the Swedish father, who smiled and gestured back and took the camera.

“Say fromage!” Paul said. He pressed his lips against Marisol’s cheek just as the man snapped the picture, with the grand Eiffel Tower posing behind them.

Back on the ground, they hired a taxi to Saint Germain, which seemed to be the center of everything, surrounded by cafes and bookstores and museums.

Paul and Marisol squeezed into tiny metal chairs around a tiny metal table under a striped umbrella, crunched together with everyone else drinking tiny cups of coffee and smoking and talking and watching the street scene.

Their coffee was served in the smallest cups Marisol had ever seen. It reminded her of the tea set she’d had when she was six.

“It’s so bitter,” she said after the first sip.

Paul handed her a long white tube. She added the whole thing and regretted it. Now it was too sweet. But she didn’t say anything. She sat there watching the scene and trying not to finish all her coffee in one gulp.

Someone at the table behind them blew a puff of smoke over their table. Everyone smoked in Paris. Everyone.

From a patisserie near the cafe they’d purchased macarons, and they opened the paper bag and ate them with their coffees. Marisol’s was pink and tasted like sugar and almonds and raspberries that dissolved in her mouth. In other words, heaven. She was licking her fingers and wishing she had another macaron when a scooter pulled to a stop in front of the cafe, its sputtering engine competing with scratchy radio music.

Paul automatically turned his ear to the sound. A grin spread across his face.

Marisol was slower to recognize the tune, but when she did, she gave a little whoop of delight. The incongruity of George Harrison’s distinctive Scouse voice blaring from the road outside one of her grandfather's favorite haunts brought a smile to her face.

 _Before this dance is through I think I'll love you too_ , sang George — in a tinny transistor radio version of the song that had driven America Beatle mad a short six months after Marisol had met them.

“We were right here in Paris you know, down the road at the George V, when we got the news that this song reached number one in America,” Paul said, reading her thoughts. He suddenly leapt to his feet, tipping over his chair. He reached for Marisol and her metal chair scraped on the sidewalk. “Danse avec moi, mon cherie?”

Everyone stared as he twirled her around and pulled her into his arms, dancing madly. On the edge of the sidewalk, he hopped from foot to foot as he bobbed his head and moved his shoulders. Dancing was made for someone like him, with energy coming out of the tips of his fingers. Marisol threw back her head and laughed, dancing along with Paul until the driver of the scooter roared away, taking the music with him.

Paul righted his chair and they sat back down and everyone returned to their tiny coffees.

“Les Américains sont fous,” said an older woman with a cigarette dangling from wrinkled lips.

Marisol glanced around self-consciously. Several people in their vicinity were still staring, but most of them weren’t judging; they were smiling. Even the cigarette woman seemed amused.

This was the city of love after all, and they were but another young couple celebrating love.

 

Shakespeare and Company was on a big street, filled with buses and cars and motorcycles and pedestrians. To the right were cafes and shops and to the left were artists painting on easels and postcard stands. Behind them was the Seine and behind the river loomed the majestic Notre Dame Cathedral, looking like something out of a fairy tale.

On the second floor of the bookstore Marisol ran her hands lovingly across a row of used Hemingway novels, feeling a little melancholy being in all the old haunts that her grandfather had loved as a young, penniless writer.

Paul sat on a cushioned window seat and alternated between watching her browse and watching the tourists on the street below.

Marisol could have stayed there for hours among the used books, touching their cracked spines, smelling their musty smells, imagining the crazy possibility that her grandmother could have owned one or more of these books when she’d lived in Paris as a young wife and mother. But it didn’t take Paul long to get restless. He soon joined her at a glass counter where she was gazing down at an ancient looking faded green book trimmed in gold.

“What is it?” he said, squinting at the flaking gold script on the spine.

“The love letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” Marisol said, her voice quiet and reverent with the enormity of it. “Published in 1899.”

Paul gestured to a clerk hovering nearby. “How much for the Barrett Browning?”

Marisol grabbed his arm. “No, Paul, it’ll cost an arm and a leg. We can’t—” She ended on a little laugh, realizing she was about to say they couldn’t afford it. Of course they could.

The clerk gave an amount in francs and Paul nodded and took out his wallet. And while Marisol stood there with her heart pounding, the collected love letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning was wrapped in crisp brown paper and placed in her arms.

Marisol hugged the package to her chest. “I love you,” she said to Paul. “Thank you.”

They kissed on the stairway, under the sign that read “Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.” Hand in hand, they walked along the Seine, as Marisol’s grandparents had done, browsing the bookstalls and small shops.

Paul bought a copy of Lolita after thumbing through it with great interest for at least fifteen minutes and turning some of the page corners down to reread later. Marisol tucked it into her handbag along with her beloved Elizabeth Barrett Browning book.

They bought crepes au fromage from a tiny bistro and a bottle of rosé from an epicerie on the corner. On a bench beside the Seine, beneath a large chestnut tree, they ate their feast and sipped their wine, as the sun lowered in an orange sky — their first unforgettable sunset on the Seine. While pigeons cooed and bobbed around their bench, they talked…and talked…something that Paul was very good at.

“Do you know that John and I once visited the Times Bookshop on Wigmore Street and he spent £150 on books in under an hour?” Paul shook his head with bewilderment. “And mind you, one pound can buy six paperbacks.”

Marisol tossed the last bit of her crepe to a pigeon. “He’s a big reader then, your John.”

“Oh yeah. He reads all the time. I’m more of a bedtime and vacation reader. John gets his inspiration from reading, but I need to be out, observing people, having conversations, finding out what other people might know that I don’t.”

He ran a finger thoughtfully across his mustache, which had grown in over the last two days. He no longer needed to use the fake theatrical mustache to maintain his disguise. “Being famous has opened up the world in ways I never imagined, but at the same time it robbed me of the ability to be an anonymous observer.”

“Which is essential for an artist,” Marisol added.

“Exactly. And coming here, incognito like this, I have this very romantic notion of being a poet, you know? Observing behavior and storing experiences to use later. I really fancy myself as an artist.”

“You _are_ an artist.”

Paul draped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her closer so their bodies were touching, hips to knees to feet. She turned her head just a little so that, just like that, their lips were touching. She lifted her hand so that it was on the back of his neck and then they were really kissing and he tasted like wine, and he pulled her closer and his hand slid down her back and his lips were moving against hers, and they were French kissing, for obvious reasons, and coming to France had been a very, very good idea, Marisol decided.

 

The night grew cool, but they weren’t ready to go inside. They continued strolling beside the Seine, admiring Notre Dame, floodlit at night, and they crossed the handsome Pont Neuf to wander the Jardin du Luxembourg, the gardens her Papa had made famous.

Here they were, on the Left Bank, the massive trees and green lawns surrounding them, the exact spot where her grandparents used to walk their baby in the decades between the wars.

“My grandparents lived so close to these gardens. My father was born here in Paris.”

Paul nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“This was Papa’s park. He used to kill pigeons and stuff them under the baby’s blanket,” she said. “They were so broke they needed the pigeons for food.”

Paul smiled softly. He reached for her hand. She loved the weight of his hand. She loved the warmth of his fingers wrapping around her own.

Her Papa had written about their time in Paris:

_We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other._

That line always got to her, because the love her grandparents shared in Paris didn’t last. She thought about her future with Paul. They walked on as the park grew darker, pausing now and then to hold each other and kiss like so many other couples.

And this was only the beginning, Marisol thought with amazed wonder, as she tilted her face and smiled at her husband-to-be on a chilly November night in Paris, and he smiled back, his eyes shining only for her.


	14. Chapter 14

[](https://imgur.com/HtJq6y9)

 

_“Life is short. From here to that old car you know so well there is a stretch of twenty, twenty-five paces. It is a very short walk. Make those twenty-five steps. Now. Right now. Come just as you are. And we shall live happily ever after. ”  — Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita_

 

Marisol sighed with pleasure, bending her knees and sinking lower into the rose scented bath. Paul had left the hotel for cigarettes, and she held his copy of _Lolita_ above the bubbles, so mesmerized by the story that she’d lost all track of time and the bath had grown tepid.

The book was written in the voice of a man driven to murder by his urge to control and love a twelve year old girl. A man who should be considered a monster and dismissed. How was it, Marisol marveled, that Nabokov’s magnificent prose could seduce the reader into seeing the man’s outrageous and criminal point of view?

The bathroom door opened. Marisol flipped a page, glanced up and froze.

An odd looking man with a wild grey wig and a hump on his back had shuffled into the bathroom and stood leering at her over his spectacles. “You look good wet,” the man said, in a strange accent.

She screamed and flung _Lolita_ at his chest.

“This is outrageous! Get out! Paul! Paauulll!” she screamed.

“Yes,” the man said, “I'm right here. It's me, love.” Paul pulled off the wig and grinned. Then he turned slightly and pulled a pillow from beneath his jacket.

“Dammit Paul! You’re giving me a bloody heart attack with these bloody disguises! Stop it you ass wank!” She threw a wet wash cloth at him, which he nimbly dodged. It fell on top of the book.

“It's only Quasimodo, Mari, for fuck’s sake. Don't be so jumpy.”

“Out!” she shrieked, adrenaline still pumping through her body, her heart pounding. When he didn't immediately move, she kicked a wave of water in his direction, and he went shuffling out with his pillow, chuckling “ass wank” to himself, leaving her to deal with the drenched  _Lolita_.

When she came out of the bathroom, Paul was lying on top of the bed, his head propped on a pillow, stark naked and happy about it. “Regardez,” he said, sweeping a hand from the top of his splendid head to his toes. “Sans disguisement.”

Marisol tightened the belt on her Paris Ritz robe and rolled her eyes, trying her damnedest not to laugh. His pidgin French slayed her every time. Along with the sight of him naked and more than ready to show her a good time.

She perched on a chair in front of the fireplace, angled away from him, pretending to be absorbed in the act of lotioning her arms and legs. Through the open window to her right, church bells chimed to the tune of “Love Me Tender.”

“You need some help with that?”

She put down the tube of lotion and gathered her hair on top of her head, and Paul was immediately behind her, shoving aside the oversized robe. He ran his hands along her bare shoulders, sending shivers down her spine.

“Paul. The lotion.”

“It's hard to focus. You ring all my bells.” He kissed her neck. “And you're bare under this robe. Feels lucky to be me.”

He pushed the robe to her waist and began rubbing lavender scented lotion across her back. The parts where she couldn't reach. How had she ever managed without him?

The balcony doors stood wide open, and the afternoon Paris sun warmed the entrance to the room. He took her to bed and devoured her. Their bodies moved perfectly, and it all mixed together, the late autumn sun, the scent of Paris, the street noise and children laughing and chiming of bells. And she opened herself to him and pulled him deeper inside.

Afterward, she rested her head on his shoulder and her breathing matched his, while he drew little pictures on her back.

“Did you just draw a guitar on me?”

“No. I'm reading your fortune.”

“Really. On my back? What's it say?”

“It says you will visit Paris often in your life, with someone who loves you.”

She smiled and closed her eyes.

_Oh Paul. So young and handsome. So happy. So much hers._

* * * * *

In Paris they slept late, lazing around in bed, writing in their journals until trays of coffee and pain au chocolat arrived.

They spent afternoons in the local bistros and tapas bars. Paul, who had a sweet tooth, had never much liked the taste of wine. Marisol did her best to educate him about such matters as balance, depth, complexity and finish.

In return, Paul taught her about jazz. At night they visited the underground Paris jazz clubs, with condensation-soaked walls covered with framed photographs of the jazz greats who had played there. They ordered Hendrick’s gin along with tapenade, peanuts and olives, while listening to the brilliant improvisations of American expat jazzmen who had exiled themselves in Paris, their syncopated rhythms played out on the trumpet, the piano and the sax. In dark, smoke-filled basement jazz clubs, Paul taught her about this freer form of music in which the performer became the composer.

Merry and tipsy, they'd stumble back to their hotel where Paul would take out the enormous brass room key and fit it into the lock and they'd fall into bed and bang their bodies together, slippery and joyful as otters.

After three perfect days and nights of this, Paul decided it was time to move on, time to find the promised Loire Valley chateau.

The weather had turned, and the skies were grey and leaden. Perfect weather for the huge chateau library with vaulted ceilings where they could sit in high backed chairs and read to their heart's content in front of a massive stone fireplace. Marisol could have stayed there all afternoon reading and waiting for the sun to show itself through the wall of windows.

Paul claimed he was a vacation reader, but Marisol soon discovered he was more of a vacation talker. He settled in beside her with The History of Jazz open on his lap but he couldn't stop talking. He'd read a few pages, then look up and ramble about Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis or Chet Baker while Marisol nodded politely and waited for him to finish so she could immerse herself in some of the most beautiful love lyrics in the English language, that of Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

As soon as the sun appeared, Paul was tired of pretending to read. In addition to the extensive library, their hilltop chateau offered stunning views across the Loire Valley. They lost themselves wandering through the surrounding vineyards and patchwork fields that seemed to roll across the horizon. They walked hand in hand while Paul talked about music, revealing intricate details of how they’d made certain guitar sounds on Revolver and Rubber Soul, and how the Beatles amused themselves seeing if they could get a naughty word on a record.

“A naughty word? Like what?”

“Oh, you know. ‘fish and finger pie', 'prick teaser', 'tit tit tit tit’.”

“Is that what you were saying on the song ‘Girl'? I knew it.”

“Well. The Beach Boys had a song out where they'd done 'la la la la' and we loved the innocence of that and wanted to copy it, but not use the same phrase. So we were looking around for another phrase, so it was 'dit dit dit dit', which we decided to change in our waggishness to 'tit tit tit tit', which is virtually indistinguishable from 'dit dit dit dit'. And it gave us a laugh.”

Marisol couldn’t help smiling at the image of the four of them in the studio thinking they were pulling one over on the recording industry and the BBC censors.

“It’s only to get some light relief in the middle of this real big career that we’re forging. If we can put in something that’s a little bit subversive then we will. George Martin might say, 'Was that "dit dit" or "tit tit" you were singing?' 'Oh, "dit dit", George, but it does sound a bit like that, doesn't it?' Then we'd get in the car and break down laughing.”

They spent long afternoons talking and roaming the hills, following neat rows of champagne vines that meandered into charming little Alpine towns full of brightly colored houses. One afternoon they stumbled upon a bustling farmer’s market for lunch. Another day they wandered into a Sauvignon Blanc wine cellar, where the cheerful owners were more than happy to give them a tour and send them off with a bottle to celebrate their honeymoon.

They returned to their chateau each night with aching feet and their heads full of memories that they faithfully recorded in their journals before making love and falling asleep exhausted.

On a sun drenched Sunday morning, Paul drove to a gorgeous stretch of marshland in southern France, where the two branches of the River Rhône ran into the sea. They picked their way along hazy beaches patched with clusters of rushes and little lagoons, past a flock of impossibly pink flamingos which Paul had to film with his movie camera. Just ahead, wild white horses galloped through the shallow waters, never allowing Paul close enough to capture them on film.

That night they dined on seafood in a gorgeous harbor town that backed onto the Atlantic Ocean. The marina was stunning at night when thousands of tiny lights illuminated the horizon. The surrounding promenade was a lovely place for a romantic evening stroll, past rows of sailboats and yachts. The stars looked like glitter on a black canvas.

Marisol linked her arm with Paul’s as they walked, her thoughts turning to her baby. “This vacation has been so amazing, but I miss our little love bunny. What if she forgets me?”

“Impossible. I tried to forget you for years.”

“What if she replaces me?”

“With Angie? With Edie? Don’t be daft.”

“With your dad.”

“There’s a possibility,” Paul said soberly.

Marisol laughed. Her hair was wild in the November sea wind and she pushed it off her face so she could see Paul smiling at her.

They strolled past a wall, their eyes met, and Paul backed her against the bricks, his hand cupping her head while he kissed her breath away. Her heart was pounding like a drum when he pulled away, staring deeply into her eyes.

This was the honeymoon she'd envisioned with Dan. Then she’d lost him, and believed she would never love that much again. How had she managed to feel this much love twice in one lifetime, and to have it returned to her? And with this man, who was so powerfully handsome it sometimes surprised her to turn and discover him by her side. With their lives an ocean apart, It was miraculous that they had somehow found each other.

“You’re something between a dream and a miracle,” she heard herself whisper.

His eyes widened.

“It’s from Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In the letters to her husband.” She was rambling, a little embarrassed. “It’s not my words. It’s from the book you bought for me at the English speaking bookstore and—”

“You’re my dream too. And my miracle,” Paul said, capturing her lips again with his.

Maybe it was the fact that everywhere they went they saw people kissing, or maybe it was the idea that they were on their pre-wedding honeymoon, but since they’d been in France, Paul had turned into a kissing bandit. He’d perfected the art of maintaining constant eye contact so he never missed a tell that she was ready to be kissed, in all sorts of ways. Tender kisses while caressing her cheek, sultry lip locks with his hand wrapped around her hair, and her personal favorite, up against a wall deep French kisses…because, well, that was obvious.

But even with all of the perfect kisses and romantic locales and magical moments, after ten days in France, Paul seemed ready to be home. Specifically, after two months away from making Beatles music, he was itching to be back in the studio. He began spending more time in the room in his own head, hunched over his guitar, jotting phrases in his school notebook. He made a call to Brian’s office, checking in, and their pre-wedding honeymoon drew to a close.

Mal Evans and Peter Brown were dispatched to France to see Paul and Marisol safely home.

Paul had grown weary of his disguise. He said he couldn’t wait to wash the Vaseline out of his hair and throw away the coke bottle specs and the ratty overcoat. He was almost ready to be a Beatle again. Feeling safe after his week of anonymity, he parked his DB5 openly in front of the chateau where they were spending their last night.

Louis, the son of the viscount who owned the chateau, was so taken with the Aston Martin that Paul offered to take him for a spin. Louis had up to now treated Paul and Marisol like any other vacationing couple, but riding in this luxurious car prompted him to ask, “What is it you do?”

“What do I do?” Paul smiled and placed a record on the turntable under the dash. “This is what I do.”

The dreamy song “Michelle” began to play, and Paul and Marisol exchanged a look. They had both been shocked to discover that while they were living apart with no contact, Marisol had named their daughter Melody Michelle. An ocean away, Paul was at that time writing the lyrics to this song. A song of unrequited love. A song that could just as easily be interpreted as describing the love of a father for his little girl who was far away. Paul said he believed his angel mother Mary had somehow given him the name Michelle, telling him about his baby girl before he’d even known she existed.

“Ah, now I understand,” Louis said with a grin. To his credit, he treated the couple no differently even after Paul revealed himself to be a world famous pop star.

Their last night in France was spent in cozy anonymity in a beautifully appointed salon filled with the viscount’s family portraits and mementoes.

Peter and Mal arrived the next morning. Peter was charged with getting the Aston Martin across the border. Mal was to accompany Paul and Marisol on their flight to London. Back in England, Mike McCartney, along with the girl he was dating, was bringing baby Melody home on the train.

It was all Marisol could think about on the flight home, how many moments were left until she could hold her baby again, press her face against her soft pink cheeks, breathe the milky sweet scent of her. “We’re missing her first train ride,” she said aloud, pulling Paul out of the conversation he was having with Mal, who was sitting across the aisle from him.

“Hmmm?”

“We're missing the baby's first train ride.”

“Oh. Right.”

In the seat pocket in front of him, _Time_ magazine was folded open to the article “Is Beatlemania Dead?” Paul had read it without comment, then asked the overly attentive stewardess for another drink and some paper and a pen.

He opened the tray table and took a drink of his second Scotch and Coke. On a sheet of blue airline stationery, he wrote “Big Brother Holding Nitty Gritty Quicksilver Fabs” and drew a circle around the last word.

Just then lunch was served, and Mal leaned over to ask what Paul was doing.

“We need a freaky new name. Like those California bands. Any ideas?”

“Pass the salt and pepper,” Mal said.

Once more Paul sipped his drink, then picked up his pen. Underneath “Fabs” he wrote “Pepper”, drawing another circle around the word. “I can use that,” he said.

“I wonder how she's doing on the long train ride though,” Marisol said, accepting a fresh glass of wine from the stewardess.

“Sergeant Pepper,” Paul said, giving Marisol his attention at last. “How about that for a name?” He took another swig of Scotch and Coke and grimaced. “After the hell of this summer we are all so sick of that fuckin’ four little mop tops shit. What if we could pretend we were another band? And what if we carried that theme through the whole album? It doesn't have to be a collection of fourteen songs. It could be like a live show…one song leading into the next…”

“I'm sure whatever you come up with will be wonderful.” They hit an air pocket and the plane jerked. Marisol reached for her wine glass to steady it. Outside the window the English Channel sparkled in the sun. “Do you think Mike will be there with Melody when we get home?”

Paul didn't answer. On his pale blue stationery he was sketching something that looked like four military style jackets. “A life outside, yet still with the Beatles,” he murmured, adding the word “Sergeant” and underlining it several times for emphasis. “A new bag.” He nodded to himself. “Very cool.”

A smiling air hostess took their trays away in preparation for landing. Marisol raised the armrest and moved as close to Paul as her seatbelt would allow.

She clung to his arm and put her head on his shoulder. Silence covered them. He was in his world and she was in hers.

“Sergeant Pepper,” he said dreamily, his thoughts a million miles away as they sailed through the clouds toward home.


	15. Chapter 15

 

“Welcome home Paul, how was your holiday?”

“Who’s the young lady? Sweetheart, what’s your name?”

“Over here, honey, give us a smile, c’mon love.”

Flash bulbs and questions fired from all directions. Marisol fought the urge to dash back inside Passport Control. With Mal the gentle giant beside them on the flight home, Paul hadn’t bothered with slicking back his hair or wearing his thick glasses. News of his imminent arrival must have reached London long before they did. There was a small army of newsmen and cameramen waiting for them in the Arrivals area, snapping pictures and shouting questions.

Paul’s reaction was swift. He shoved his carry-on at Mal and grabbed Marisol’s hand and plowed through the throng of newsmen. A smile was plastered to his face for the benefit of the cameras, while he barely responded to the questions shouted at them.

“Why the mustache, Paul, is it a disguise?”

“Obviously not, or you wouldn’t have recognized me would you?”

“Who’s your lovely companion? C’mon, Paul, give us something, mate.”

“When we’re ready to make an announcement, you’ll be the first to know.” Paul’s voice sounded calm even as his fingers tightened around Marisol’s and he increased his pace.

A cameraman leaped in front of Marisol and she gasped as she nearly tripped over him, blinded by a flash.

“Hey, hey, watch it!” Paul pointed at the photographer and his voice turned menacing. “I know your face, man, don’t pull any more stunts like that.” Then he gave Mal a look.

“No pictures!” Mal boomed. “Step aside and let them through!”

Marisol nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d never heard soft spoken Mal make so much noise.

“About fuckin time you intervened, Mal. Christ.” Paul's lips were as rigid as a ventriloquist. He somehow managed to look genial for the cameras while snarling at Mal.

At the airport exit, Paul made an attempt to placate the hungry newsmen. “Look, mates. I’m on holiday, right? The Beatles are back in studio next week and it will be a pleasure to see all of you there. All right? Caio. See you then. Cheers. Bye.”

The drizzle had turned into a steady rain outside the terminal. Paul looked up and down the row of cars and threw up his hands in disbelief. “Where the fug is my car?”

With photographers still snapping away, an airline representative and some sort of security agent scurried up. “Sir, can we offer assistance?”

“Yes. That’d be grand. Get us out of here, would you mind?”

Magically, umbrellas appeared and were raised over their heads and Marisol and Paul were rushed to a private waiting area inside the terminal building while Mal struggled with the luggage and tried to suss out why Alistair hadn’t arrived before the flight with the DB6, as planned.

Twenty minutes later, their alternate limousine transportation still hadn’t arrived. Paul took his frustration out on Mal, who looked drenched and miserable. Finally the airline representatives bundled Marisol and Paul into a black taxi, leaving Mal to sort out the luggage and his own transportation.

Inside the taxi, Marisol did her best to soothe her frazzled fiancé, rubbing the back of his neck and reminding him how wonderful it would be to see their baby. Paul’s mood had darkened by the minute, from the time their plane had touched down in a cold drizzle.

“I just want my car to show up where it’s supposed to be, when it’s supposed to be. Is that too bloody much to ask? Fuckin’ Alistair.” Paul sounded like a petulant little boy.

“I know, sweetheart. But what a wonderful holiday we had. What are you going to miss most about Paris?” Marisol asked, trying to distract him.

Paul shook his head, unwilling to be distracted.

“I'm going to miss the macarons you introduced me to,” Marisol said.

With a little smile, Paul said, “I'm going to miss licking pain au chocolat off of your—“

“Sshh,” Marisol said, pointing at the back of the driver’s head. “I'm going to miss hearing the bells.”

Paul began to get into the spirit of the conversation. “I'm going to miss dressing up like Quasimodo and carrying you away to bed.”

“I'm going to miss…no girls standing around outside,” she finished, as they pulled up to the Cavendish home, where at least a dozen girls waited in the rain. Word traveled fast.

“All right girls?” Paul said, suddenly all smiles as he bounded out of the taxi. It was like someone flipped a switch. The girls giggled and clucked greetings at him and Paul soaked it all up. Marisol couldn’t decide whether the sight of pretty teenage girls hanging around his house genuinely made him ecstatic or he was genetically programmed to be “on” in front of an audience, no matter how small. Maybe it was a bit of both.

“You’re real,” one of the girls said, beaming up at him. “You’re really real.”

“Pinch me and see for yourself,” Paul said, holding out his arm and grinning at the girl.

Inside the taxi, Marisol rolled her eyes.

There was a chorus of slightly hysterical giggles as the girls crowded around him. It was like Paul was a piece of bread crust with the fans surrounding him like a bunch of pigeons. He signed autographs and posed for pictures and answered silly questions lobbed at him while Marisol waited impatiently to get inside where her baby could be waiting.

“Where are you from?” Paul asked a girl with an American southern drawl.

“Texas,” the girl replied, practically bouncing with happiness that Paul was here and giving her attention.

“Well ain't that somethin’,” Paul drawled. “Yellow Rose of Texas!”

“Flew all this way to meet you.”

“Did you now. What’s happened to my lock?” Paul said, jiggling his keys. “Did someone mess with my lock again?”

“C’mon, cmon,” Marisol murmured. She watched as Paul gave up on the lock and stepped back from the crowd of girls, considering his options. Just as it looked as if he was going to climb over, the gates magically opened. Through the rain she saw Mike standing on the threshold with Melody on his shoulder, upright and alert.

“My baby,” Marisol breathed, unbuckling her seatbelt and leaving the door of the taxi wide open as she dashed through the raindrops and across the courtyard.

Melody saw her mother and waved sweetly, opening and closing her fingers over her fist.

“My sweet baby!” Marisol said, practically knocking Mike down as she tried to hug both him and the baby.

He laughed and backed inside the house, surrendering Melody to Marisol’s arms. A pretty brunette with huge brown eyes framed by lush lashes stood smiling just inside the doorway.

“Thank you,” Marisol said. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

“Oh she’s a delightful little moppet,” the girl said. “I’m April.”

Melody made a fretful sound and Marisol went automatically into mommy mode, her body swaying like a metronome, her hand patting Melody’s back.

“I’m Marisol.”

April laughed. “I know.”

“Was she a good girl for you?”

“Yeah, a right angel! She might be getting a cold though. She’s a bit snotty.”

Melody hunched her back, her arms and legs stiff, pushing against Marisol.

Her nose was red, her cheeks chapped, and she looked flushed. And definitely snotty. “Oh baby. You poor thing. Mommy’s home.”

Melody looked up, her eyes swimming with tears. “Down!” she demanded, her voice sounding thick with her cold.

“Okay, okay…do you know how much I missed you baby?”

As soon as Melody’s feet hit the ground she was off, her little white leather shoes slapping the wood floor. With a gait that resembled a tiny Frankenstein, she toddled to the dining room table, dropped to all fours and crawled underneath it. Then she plopped on her diapered bottom, turned to look at everyone and wailed.

“Has she been crying like that all morning?” Marisol asked. “Has she been sick long?”

“No, she seemed fine, just stuffy. This is the first time I’ve heard her cry,” April said.

“Ah, she’s just got a mard on that you left her on her own,” Mike said helpfully. “It’ll pass.”

April elbowed him in the ribs. “Hush, you. No need making her feel guilty.”

Marisol felt something brush against her ankles and looked down to see two small grey and white striped cats. “Oh! The cats are back!”

“All five of ‘em,” Mike said.

“Five? Since when are there five?”

April patted her arm. “You might want to see about having them altered. We think Thisbe’s pregnant.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake.”

Paul burst in, his hair glistening with raindrops, and handed Marisol her purse. “You left this in the taxi. What’s wrong with Mel?”

“I think she’s getting sick, Paul. She doesn’t want to be held.”

“We’ll see about that.”

In the dining room Paul dropped to his knees and held out his arms. “Where’s my girl?”

The wailing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. From under the table Melody smiled tentatively at her daddy, showing her little pearly teeth and gleaming eyes.

“Come here baby girl,” Paul coaxed.

With a shriek of joy, Melody threw herself into his arms. He sat on the floor and rocked and cuddled, hummed and soothed, and in seconds the tears had stopped. Melody pressed her damp face into her daddy’s neck, one tiny hand clutching his shoulder, the other hand patting his back while she cooed “Da da da.”

“Somebody’s a daddy’s girl.” April chuckled.

“Hey brother, you've got a climber.” Mike pointed out the front window, and Marisol looked in time to see the girl from Texas drop from the gate and start up the driveway.

Paul handed Melody off to Mike and went out the front door. Laughing, he escorted Texas out the gate.

“This place is a zoo,” Marisol muttered.

April linked her arm through Marisol’s. “You look drenched. Come in the kitchen, I’ve got the kettle on.”

 

The rain continued to fall, but no matter. There was more than enough going on inside the house to keep Marisol occupied.

Mr. and Mrs. Kelly arrived with carrier bags full of groceries. Mr. Kelly wanted to talk to Paul about an oil leak he’d discovered under the Mini. “Take care of it and leave me the bill,” Paul said. “And then have a look at the gate. Something’s gone wrong with the lock again.”

Mrs. Kelly wanted to talk about the menu she had planned for the week. “Take it up with the lady of the house,” Paul said. Mrs. Kelly sniffed and went into the kitchen to sulk.

“That woman,” Marisol said. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Hmmm?” Paul was picking through a mountain of mail. “Lookit here! A postcard from John and Cyn from Spain!”

“Do we really need a Mr. and Mrs. Kelly?” Marisol whispered.

Paul looked up from the postcard, his brows knit. “Well, I’m not taking care of the garden and all this other shit, are you?”

“Probably not,” Marisol admitted, taking the postcard from him.

“Right then.”

Marisol was smiling over the postcard from John when she noticed Paul opening an envelope. He was about to toss it to one side, as he did with most “bits of paper.” Suddenly, his attention was caught and he gazed at the page with a strange look on his face.

“Have a look at this, Mar.” He handed the paper to Marisol with a deadpan expression.

It was a statement from Barclays Bank at St. John’s Wood, Paul’s local branch. Paul McCartney, Esq. Current account was written across the top. Marisol’s eyes traveled downward and focused on the figure in the final column. Then on the load of zeroes after it.

“You’re a millionaire,” Marisol said, assuming that was what he wanted her to see.

Paul took the statement back and gazed, as if mesmerized. He started to giggle nervously.

“You must have already known that, you’ve been at this for years now, the biggest attraction in the world.”

“Well, yeah, I know there are millions in the Beatles accounts, but my account is only a fraction of what the Beatles are worth, and that means…I don’t know what it means.” He chuckled. “I used to know how much money we had. An accountant wrote it on a bit of paper. But I lost that bit of paper.”

He carefully folded the statement and tucked it back in the envelope. He looked at Marisol, and the expression in his eyes said Bloody hell, what do we do now?

“Well, I’m glad to know we could afford that Paris trip after all.”

Paul scoffed. “A few more nights at the Ritz and I’d be skint.”

Melody made a whining sound and tugged at Paul’s trousers. “Up, dada! Up!”

Paul lifted Melody onto his hip and continued sorting through the mail one-handed. Marisol went searching for a tissue just as Melody wiped her runny nose all over her daddy’s new green wool jacket from Paris.

By the time she returned with a box of tissues and a sippy cup of juice, Mal was dragging their luggage into the house, including several boxes containing carefully packaged antique lamps and artwork they’d acquired in France. Paul immediately sent him off again into the rain to fetch the dogs from Mrs. Aspinall in Sussex. Ten minutes later Alistair arrived with the Aston Martin and got a good rollicking from Paul for being late.

Then Paul secluded himself in the living room for a phone interview with a reporter from the Beatles Book Monthly. Marisol peeked inside to see that Melody was behaving, and found her nestled on her daddy’s lap with her juice cup, resting her head on his chest. She heard Paul addressing concerns from American fans wanting to know why their albums were different from the English releases. He was quiet for a minute, and then his voice rose. “Course we’re not finished. Look at the bloody album sales. It’s the bloody Beatles! Shuddup!”

Marisol backed silently out of the room.

A spare room was made up for Mike and April—Marisol took care of that herself because she didn’t want to ask Mrs. Kelly anything—and it was late afternoon by the time she had a few seconds to call her parents.

She sat on the bed in the master bedroom, holding a drooping, overheated Melody in her lap. While the baby whined and chewed frantically on the ear of her stuffed elephant, Marisol placed an international call to California.

“Hi Mother, we’ve just got back and Melody is flushed and congested and how do I know when to take her to a doctor?” Marisol said in a rush.

“What’s her temperature?” Her mother launched straight into the meat of the conversation, without taking time for social niceties. That was the wonderful thing about mothers.

“I don’t know.” Marisol looked around the room helplessly. “I don’t have a thermometer.”

“You most certainly do, I unpacked it myself.”

“I’m in London.”

She could feel her mother’s disapproval as if she were standing in the room with her.

“I see. Then send the child’s father out for one.”

The child’s father. Could she not even say Paul’s name? Marisol sighed. “I don’t even know what her temperature is supposed to be in Celsius.”

“The thermometer will have both Celsius and Fahrenheit. Don’t be so clueless, Marisol.”

Out of nowhere, Marisol felt her eyes fill with tears. There could be no more helpless feeling than holding a sick child and wondering if you were doing everything right. What if she missed something, some dangerous sign? At times like these, all Marisol wanted was to be home with her parents nearby and her own family doctor on call.

“I’m not being clueless. I’m really anxious I’m going to miss something.”

“Nonsense. Your mother’s intuition will tell you when your own baby needs a doctor. She’s likely teething. Put her in a tepid bath and send Paul out for a thermometer. And baby paracetamol.”

Marisol sniffed loudly and rubbed at her nose. “Thanks Mom. I hate it when she’s sick.”

“She’ll survive. Do you remember that time I left you when you were three to take cooking lessons with Julia Child in Paris?”

“Yes Mother. You tell me about it in almost every conversation.”

“And you somehow survived.”

Melody threw her elephant on the floor and stiffened, tilting her head to look up at Marisol with crocodile tears in her eyes. “Mamama!” she cried.

Now they were both crying. “Thanks, Mother. I’ll see you next week for Thanksgiving, as long as the baby is well enough to fly.”

 

Marisol was kneeling beside the sunken tub, pouring little cups of warm water over Melody’s chest, when Paul came into the en suite bathroom and joined her on the tile floor. “Everything okay love?”

“No, it is not. We shouldn’t have stayed away so long. I shouldn’t have let you take me away to France.”

Paul made an exaggerated pout. “You don’t mean that. We deserve a honeymoon.”

Marisol opened her mouth to respond but Melody had taken a gulp of water from the cup she was playing with and was coughing and sputtering and unable to breathe through her nose. Marisol raised the baby’s arm over her head and patted her back until the coughing fit was over.

“How did you know to do that?” Paul asked.

“Because that’s what you do.”

“See what a good mum you are?”

“We need a thermometer. And baby paracetamol. What sort of parents are we?”

Paul kissed her cheek and got to his feet. “I’ll send Mal out again as soon as he gets back with the dogs.”

Marisol sighed. Poor Mal. But needs must. “Give him something to eat first. And tell him to make sure the thermometer has Fahrenheit on it. I can’t deal with all that English crap tonight.”

“As you wish.”

 

Their first night home from vacation was a rude awakening. The house was full of people. The Kellys, Mike and April, and even Mal stayed the night, since he was too exhausted from all the running around in the rain to drive home to his family in Liverpool.

The dogs were wet and muddy and had to be washed down outside, which was a major production and basically transferred all the mud and water to Marisol, who then needed a bath. Cats seemed to be everywhere, darting around under foot while the dogs raced after them and Melody squealed and tried to keep up.

Despite her inability to spare a word for Marisol, Mrs. Kelly was a fine cook. She made a “good ol’ Liverpool fry up” at Paul’s and Mike’s request. After dinner the Kellys retired to their basement apartment. Upstairs the scotch flowed freely and Paul and Mike dipped into the jar kept on the mantel for medicinal purposes. April was full of fun and easy to like, but Marisol couldn’t enjoy herself for worrying about her baby.

By 9:00, Melody was cranky and exhausted and all Marisol wanted to do was curl up in bed beside her baby and try to catch some sleep while keeping one ear attuned to the sound of her breathing. She carried her daughter into the smoke-filled room where Paul sat with the others on the fat fern green velvet sofa, watching Otis Redding on Ready Steady Go on the new color television.

“I’m going to sleep in the guest room with the baby tonight,” she whispered in Paul’s ear.

“You absolutely are not.” Paul lit another cigarette, inhaled and blew the smoke over his shoulder.

“She is ill,” Marisol said through gritted teeth.

“Look, love, if you’re going to overreact every time Mel gets a sniffle, we’re going to need to talk about hiring a nanny.”

Paul peered at her leisurely through a haze of smoke. _Not a care in the world. Just like a man._ Marisol bit back a sharp reply and flounced out of the room. She knew how to handle this man of hers by now.

She stayed with Melody, watching her sleep, until Paul came looking for her. He was shirtless in his pajama bottoms and ready for bed. He peered at Melody for a few seconds.

“She’s fine,” he said. He held out his hand. Marisol went with him to the master bedroom, and, because time was of the essence, she made sure he was watching as she performed a little striptease. Then she climbed into bed and started rubbing herself all over him.

She’d read somewhere — in a _Brides_ magazine perhaps? — that the higher the pitch of a woman’s cries and moans, the more quickly the man climaxed. Turns out you _can_ believe what you read in _Brides_ magazine. When he finished, she kissed him passionately and said “You were amazing, darling. You always are. I’m going to check on the baby.” Paul nodded, closing his eyes with a satisfied smile on his face. Men were so easy.

* * * * *

Marisol awoke to the sound of her baby babbling. She blinked open her eyes, surprised to find Paul lying beside her in the guest bed with Melody on his chest. “Shh. Mummy’s knackered,” he whispered to their daughter.

“I’m awake,” Marisol said. She gazed at him, a smile curving her lips.

“What are you smiling at, love?”

“You’re shirtless with the world’s sweetest baby cuddled on those muscles. So sexy.”

She saw his eyes crinkle a little with the effort not to smile. He absolutely loved it when she told him he was sexy. She could almost see him puff up.

He laughed then, husky and soft, and the sound burrowed into her, warming her. He rolled over, depositing Melody on the bed between them.

“She survived the night. She’s bouncing around like a rabbit. We must be doing something right,” he mused. He looked at Marisol, his eyes tripping on a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. He gently urged it away with a finger. He smiled tenderly. “I dreamed about you last night.”

Marisol started to ask him about the dream, but Paul had left the bedroom door open, and suddenly Cookie was in the bed with them, jumping on their legs and pressing her cold nose into their warm ticklish spots and making a nuisance of herself.

“Go away, Cookie!” Marisol pushed the dog away from Melody’s face before she could lick the baby's nose again.

“It’s a good thing I fell in love with you before I knew about all this baggage,” Paul pretended to complain, but his eyes were twinkling and Marisol knew he loved all of this. Whereas she would be content to spend hours a day alone with her books or her journals, Paul loved the chaos of people and animals surrounding him. He thrived on it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” she asked, knowing that it would likely involve a house full of guests.

Paul stroked his mustache thoughtfully. “Dunbar’s coming over. We’re going to take the footage I shot in France and some of our shots stalking around London and put together a film or two.”

Sunlight from the bedroom window slanted across the white bedspread, making Marisol long to be outside. She stretched and sat up. “I think I’ll call Kim Moon and see if she wants to take the babies to the park again. It will be good for Mel to get out in the sun.”

Beau appeared at the door and gave a quiet chuff. He was no doubt used to having his breakfast early in Mrs. Aspinall’s house. Melody rolled onto her belly and slid off the bed, and she was off and running after the dogs.

Paul went after them, calling over his shoulder, “You know they’ve moved, don’t you? Keith and Kim? They’re no longer our neighbors.”

“What? They’d only just moved in!”

“Yeah, they had to move. Too many complaints about the loud music and their arguments at all hours.” He scooped Melody up before she reached the stairs.

“How do you know all this?” Marisol followed close behind.

“Word gets around. Everyone knows Moonie goes mad when he’s bladdered. And he’s always bladdered.”

“Well, tell your ‘everyone’ to tell Kim to call me.”

Paul shrugged. “Ring Brian’s office. They can find anyone’s number.”

Marisol made a mental note to do just that. She was worried about her new friend Kim and her out of control husband and didn’t want to lose touch with her.

In the master bedroom, Paul closed the door behind them so Melody couldn’t wander off down the stairs. “You’ll be all right today then? I want to get to work on these films as soon as Mike leaves.”

“Of course. Do you want me to make you some breakfast?”

Paul looked amused. “Why would you do that? What am I paying Mrs. Kelly for?”

“Oh…right.” For a moment Marisol wondered just what it was she was supposed to do all day in this mansion while Paul immersed himself in his art. Then Melody coughed and Cookie whimpered and she remembered she had a baby with a cold and a half dozen animals to feed and take care of. And cats to take to the vet before any of them got pregnant. The day would likely fill itself.

Marisol was late getting down to breakfast. She’d checked Melody’s temperature and given her a sponge bath and dressed her in pink corduroy overalls and a white turtleneck top with tiny pink roses.

Around the breakfast table over coffee, Paul and Mike were musing about their Liverpool childhoods.

“As children we never did anything more lively than visit a pet shop or watch a fisherman paint his boat,” Mike said.

“Sound preparation for life in Britain,” Paul said.

“But look at you now,” April said, smiling at Paul. “King of London.”

Paul smiled vaguely. He shoved a newspaper Marisol’s way, folded to reveal a quarter page photo of the two of them arriving at London airport yesterday. She scanned the blurb beneath the photo.

“Paul McCartney and his blonde companion return from holiday in France. When asked if wedding bells were in his future, McCartney smiled mysteriously and said, “Could be! You’ll be the first to know!”

Marisol frowned. “I don’t remember it that way at all.”

"Now you know how it feels," Paul snapped.

“How have you managed to keep her name out of the newspaper?” Mike wondered.

“My friends are the soul of discretion."

The phone rang, and Mrs. Kelly turned from the sink and dried her hands on a towel.

“I’ll get it, Mrs. Kelly.” Marisol dropped Melody into Paul’s arms and took the call in the front room, certain it would be her mother checking on the baby.

“I saw you in the newspaper while I was having my cornflakes. You look bloody petrified.”

“Angela!” Marisol smiled with delight at the sound of her friend’s lively voice. “I know, it was awful. We were ambushed the moment we landed.”

“Get used to it, pet. So you’re back from France then?”

“We are, and I’ve brought you a souvenir. Can you come over? Maybe go to the park?”

“I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Can’t wait to see you!” Marisol hung up the phone, smiling faintly,

Only seconds later her smile faded at the sound of that obnoxious buzzer. She pushed the front curtain to one side and saw a ginger head pop up over the gate. One girl at a time would stand on the lock mechanism and hold on as long as possible until she had to drop down. Across the street, a half dozen girls stood on a low wall, craning their necks. They screamed at the sight of movement from the house. Marisol let the curtain drop. Apparently this was their new game. One of them would dash across the street and push the buzzer while the others waited from the best vantage point to see if Paul would come to the window.

The buzzer sounded again. Paul came through to the front room, singing softly.

_“Coz I'm so tired, tired of waiting, tired of waiting for you…”_

He handed the baby to Marisol and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I’ll go out and have a word with the girls. They only want to say hello.”

As soon as he opened the front door he was greeted by a chorus of delighted screams. “Ssh! Hush girls!” Paul said, laughing as he dashed across the courtyard to meet his adoring fans.

Beau and Cookie scampered out the front door, barking madly. Melody blinked at Marisol, whimpering in surprise at the sudden noise from the street. “Da da?”

Marisol nodded. “Get used to it, baby girl. Your daddy is a rock star.”

 _Time_ magazine had it wrong. Beatlemania was alive and well outside Paul’s London home, 24 hours a day.

Sunlight sluiced through the open front door. Outside, the dogs snuffled at the vegetation on either side of the drive. Laughter echoed from the street, high pitched giggles from the girls and Paul’s deeper chuckle. Inside the house, with a soft black kitten winding figure eights around her ankles, Marisol felt at peace. Her baby was safely in her arms, with nothing but a mild cold. She was safe and warm and loved. She and Paul had each other, they had love, what else could they ever need?


	16. Chapter 16

“Did you ever see a lassie, a lassie, a lassie,” Angela sang, dancing Melody around the living room. Melody crowed and clapped her hands with glee.

“She’s really taken with you.”

“Of course she is. I was there when the whole rigamarole began, with you and her daddy. Wasn’t I munchkin?” Angela covered Melody’s face with kisses.

The buzzer at the front gate sounded, for the third time in ten minutes.

“I have to get out of here,” Marisol said, stuffing a cup of juice into the diaper bag. She called for Beau. Cookie was already underfoot, her tail beating a tattoo against the front door.

Angela looked up and tilted her head toward the ceiling. “Is that Bach?”

“Sounds like it.”

“What is he doing?”

“They’re making a movie.” Marisol sighed. “It’s taking up all their time.”

“The Beatles?”

“No, Paul and some avant-garde pal of his. They’re very buzzed about it.”

“A movie about Bach?”

Marisol laughed. “No, silly. They’re synchronizing their film clips to music. It’s very time consuming.” She lifted Melody from Angela’s arms. “Can you manage both leashes while I get Mel in the stroller?”

“Sure thing. C’mon pups.”

A group of regulars, who seemed to make an appearance every day, stood guard in front of 7 Cavendish Avenue, waiting for the gate to open.

“Whose kid is that?” one of them asked, pointing at the push cart.

“Ye wanna mind yer own bleedin’ business,” Angela said. Angela didn't use her posh accent when speaking to the girls, Marisol noticed. She used her other accent, the one that made her sound like a pirate.

One of the girls got in Marisol's space, much too close. “Hey you. What's your name?”

Ignoring the girl, Marisol turned around to lock the gate. She gasped. There, in huge white chalk letters on the dark green gate, someone had scrawled “GO HOME YOU SLUT!”

Her heart raced and she immediately wanted to lash out at these horrid girls. How dare they deface her future home? Who were they to publicly shame her?

She whirled on the girls. “Paul is going to be very, very pissed.”

“Yes indeed. Paul will not take to you calling that nice Mrs. Kelly a slut,” Angela added. “What is your problem girls?”

“We don't like her,” a tall brunette pointed at Marisol.

“And she's American.”

“We want him to be with someone like himself. Someone like Jane.”

“That's not up to you, is it? Paul fancies her lots. And he won't take to you scrawling rude shite on his gate.”

“She's just a gold digger.”

“She stole him from Jane.”

Angela turned to Marisol, miming a shocked face. “You stole Paul from that poor Jane? I'd no idea. How appallingly slutty of you.”

“Lets go,” Marisol hissed at Angela. 

One of the fans was bending over the push cart, peering at Melody.

“No no no no no noooo!” Melody said, pointing at the girl.

Marisol heard the agitation in her baby’s cry. She was probably reacting to the negative energy swirling around them. The dogs were getting excited too, winding around the girls’ legs, and Marisol feared they would soon be a tangle of leashes and wheels and fur and dreadful teenage girls.

“Let’s go!” she said, louder, and pushed her way out of the drive, turning right toward the cricket grounds and the park beyond.

Behind them someone snarled, “I want you to die.”

Angela whirled around. “That’s harassment. Now we're going to have to call the police.”

“You can't get arrested for hating someone and wanting them to die.”

“You lot need to get a life. Go away.”

“Ange! Come on,” Marisol yelled over her shoulder. Her heart was still racing at being forced into that unnatural sort of confrontation. 

The dogs tugged at their leads until Angela had caught up to Marisol and the baby. “Would you cop a load of that? Don’t they have jobs or school or anything?”

“Apparently not.”

“Does that happen every day?”

“I can’t say. I haven’t gone out much without Paul.”

“So you’re a prisoner in your home.”

“It’s not like that.” Marisol heaved a sigh, relaxing her shoulders when she realized none of the girls were following them. “I try to ignore them. Like teaching a toddler not to throw temper tantrums.”

Angela regarded her as they walked. “Does Paul know how they're treating you?”

Marisol thought about the question. “When he’s around they’re more focused on him than me. Sometimes when we drive off they holler and tell him to get rid of me.”

“What does he do?”

“Oh, you know, he’ll rant at them sometimes, but they just grin and swoon and fall around and nothing changes.”

Angela reeled in the dogs as they reached the street corner. “Look right,” she said as a bus rumbled by.

“I know, geez.”

A lorry driver slowed and waved them across, then leaned out of the window and whistled and hooted at them as they walked past.

“Bugger off, knobhead!” Angela shouted, then covered her mouth. “Oops, sorry, forgot about the child.”

“It’s nothing she doesn’t hear from her daddy most days.”

“Do we British swear more than you American lot?” Angela wondered.

“Maybe. You certainly seem more fluent at it. And so many colorful words to choose from.”

“True, we are colorful,” Angela mused. “But how many words for tallywacker do we really need?"

The air was crisp and cool and the sun was shining intermittently through clouds racing across a periwinkle sky. Beside the boating lake, they spread a picnic blanket with Melody between them while the dogs sniffed around the water's edge.

“I wish I could see more of you. I wish you lived closer,” Marisol said, smiling at her friend.

“Me too. I wish I lived closer with central heating.” 

Angela had a good set up, even if she was a twenty minute bus ride away. She lived in a flat above a landlady with a blind son who was attending university. Angela would regularly read to him out of his textbooks that weren’t in Braille, in exchange for reduced rent. The only problem, as Marisol saw it, was that she constantly had to run out for change to put in the electric meter. This seemed very foreign, and scary. 

“What if your electricity runs out in the middle of the night, leaving you in a dark, cold flat?” Marisol wondered aloud.

Angela shrugged dismissively and said, “I have a torch.”

“A what?”

“A flashlight, you dim cow.”

“Ah. Which brings me to another cultural difference. Paul and his mates insult each other far more than I ever would with my friends. If I called any of my friends a twat, or a dim cow, or worse, the unsayable four letter c-word, I definitely wouldn’t get invited to their wedding.”

“Maybe we Brits exchange jovial insults because we’re too uptight and emotionally stunted to say how we really feel. The stronger your friendship, the more you can lay into each other and still come away with a warm feeling.”

“Hmm. Maybe those fans were slut shaming me in a friendly way? Is that what you’re saying?”

Angela grimaced. “Not saying that at all. You need to address that with your man.”

Two young mothers paused a few feet away, deep in conversation. The path was on a bit of a hill, and a very small boy tumbled out of his push chair onto the grassy area in front of the lake. He dusted himself off, looked accusingly up at his mother and loudly and calmly said, “Bloody hell.”

Marisol and Angela looked at each other and burst into laughter. 

“I knew it,” Marisol whispered. “Bloody hell is the first thing a British baby says, am I right?”

“Sorry, no. It’s ‘sorry.’”

The two of them fell into their normal easy conversation, talking about how their families were driving them nuts and how Angela’s last relationship with a footballer had ended and what courses she was taking at university and the latest books they’d read and what it had been like for Marisol flying back into London on Paul’s arm with the reporters and cameramen stalking them.

They laughed at the way Melody listened attentively, the way she watched each of them in turn as they spoke, sometimes raising her tiny dark brows and mimicking their expressions.

They laughed at the dogs frolicking in the leaves, and at the way they both sat still and pointed their noses at the sky and howled along with a passing police siren.

They even laughed about the silly girls at the gate who all considered themselves to be Paul’s wife, guarding him from Marisol the intruder.

Marisol couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much with a girlfriend. Angela relaxed her, gave her a sense of playful freedom. It made her realize how much she needed a girlfriend to vent to about her chaotic life. Not that she couldn’t talk for hours to Paul. He was a born communicator, but he’d be bored stiff if he was forced to listen to the things she and Angela talked about. It was simply one of the differences between men and women.

Shortly after they’d returned from France, Marisol had spent an hour talking to her sister Margo on the phone, and when she was done, Paul exclaimed, “You just talked to your sister about nothing for an hour!” Those “nothing” topics? Their parents’ health, Margo’s husband’s decision not to reenlist in the Air Force after this tour of duty, sick toddlers and kindergartners and where they would spend the holidays. The stuff of life. The things a girlfriend understood.

When Paul was with his friends they talked mainly about music and work. They talked about the things they’d seen and done, the places they’d been. There was rarely any discussion of people, feelings or relationships.

Boys will be boys, and sometimes their can’t-read-your-mind responses prompted the need to commiserate with a girlfriend. On the other hand, sometimes the boy deserved a round of applause. And nothing served as a better reminder of how lucky in love she was than a sigh from Angela as Marisol recapped one of Paul’s recent romantic gestures in Paris.

 

Angela had an afternoon class, and all too soon it was time to run the gauntlet of fans in front of the Cavendish house. One of the girls, who Marisol now recognized, approached her as she was unlocking the gate. “Is your name Marisol?”

Marisol looked up, startled. The girl held out a letter, and Marisol took it automatically. It was addressed to Marisol from her sister Margo, and it had been slit open and no doubt read. Inside were photographs of her sweet nieces and a private letter from her sister.

“Where did you get this?” Marisol said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. The nerve of this girl, violating her privacy. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the word “SLUT” still loomed on the gate behind the girl, in foot high chalk letters.

The girl smirked. “None of your bleeding business.”

Angela broke the staring contest. “You are skating on thin ice, you little twat, and you are about to go under.”

“Forget it Ange. Paul will deal with this.” 

“Oooooh. I’m scared,” the girl said, and the others behind her tittered. 

“Why do you talk like the telly?” another girl asked.

“Shuddup, you daft cow,” Angela snarled.

Marisol tucked the letter inside the diaper bag, ignoring them all. Her hands shook as she fiddled with the lock. She had to stop herself from screaming for Paul like a harridan the second they opened the front door.

Somehow she restrained herself until Melody was down for her afternoon nap and Angela had given her a pep talk and a hug and left for class. Then she climbed the stairs to the studio where Paul and John Dunbar were deep in conversation about tape loops and electronic music and splicing film clips. 

Paul looked up from his seat at the piano and smiled angelically. “Hello love. Wait ’til you see what we’ve been up to.”

“Mmm,” Marisol said, giving John a small smile and moving closer to Paul.

He pulled her onto his lap, continuing his conversation with Dunbar. “If Warhol can film an unchanging view of the Empire State Building for eight hours, I reckon we can do something with two months worth of footage.”

Even before Marisol moved to England, Paul and John Dunbar had been stalking around London with twin 16 mm cameras, shooting just about anything they considered freaky or far out, making their own underground films. Now back at St. John’s Wood, the two spaced-out cinematic pioneers had devoted the past week to their art, often working late into the night like a couple of mad scientists in Frankenstein’s lab.

Paul talked excitedly about his vision for their films, and about the upcoming screening at Indica. Handsome, bespectacled John Dunbar smiled and nodded and added a word here and there, finally excusing himself to visit the loo.

“How was your afternoon, love?” Paul asked, finally turning his attention to Marisol and giving her a squeeze.

“Very nice. Nice getting out with Angela, but…” Marisol looked down at the letter clutched in her hand and sighed.

“But what? Everything all right?”

She shook her head. “Those girls outside, Paul. They went through my mail.”  
She held up the letter.

Paul blew out a breath and stood abruptly, and Marisol slid unceremoniously from his lap, stumbling a little. “I’ll have a word with them. We’re heading over to Tara’s and then to the bookstore.”

He snatched up some film canisters and left without looking at her again, leaving Marisol feeling bereft and disconcerted. He hated that she didn’t get along with the fans, but how was she to blame for any of this?

He stomped out the door with Dunbar, grumbling what sounded like “these birds are doing me head in.”

He was gone for the rest of the afternoon, while Marisol stewed over the fans. Maybe she should try harder to get along with them? Maybe it was wrong of her to view them as dozens of little intruders into her private life who all thought they were Paul’s future wife and owned a part of him. Maybe, after hearing all the horror stories from Cynthia and Maureen and Pattie, she expected the worst from the fans and she got it. She didn’t want to keep droning on about them to Paul, when it only upset him, but something had to be done about those girls.

Life had seemed so beautiful and uncomplicated last week on holiday. And maybe that’s what they needed, Marisol decided, a night like they’d had in France. So she chilled a bottle of wine and asked Mrs. Kelly if she’d listen for the baby so she could do some marketing and prepare a romantic dinner for her husband to be. 

She took Paul’s Mini to the market instead of walking. A couple of fans banged on the car and shouted rude things at her, but it was better than face to face confrontation. 

Twenty minutes later with her small box of food, she discovered a small crowd gathered around Paul’s Mini. She had no idea how it had been recognized outside the market.

A slender girl with a rosy complexion stood next to the driver’s door. “Is Paul here?” she asked as Marisol approached. 

“No, he’s working,” Marisol said, digging for her keys.

“I’m Helen,” the girl said.

“Nice to meet you,” Marisol said, leery of giving anyone else her name. She was having trouble juggling the box of food and opening the car door, and to make matters worse, two men waiting at a bus stop started whistling and cat-calling, yelling things like “Hey Blondie!” and “Lovely legs, love!” 

Marisol was wearing a soft suede jacket over a chocolate brown belted mini skirt. Paul loved seeing her in short skirts, but the fashion was still new enough that men always stared and some of them made embarrassing comments. It made her want to scurry home and wrap herself in a pair of comfortable jeans and an old sweater. Or kick those rude men in the bollocks. Or both.

“Can I help you?” Helen offered.

“Oh. Thanks, you’re very sweet.” Marisol gratefully handed the girl the box so she could locate her keys and open the car.

A couple of other girls crowded around, peering into the box. “Does Paul like green apples or red apples best?” one of them asked.

Marisol laughed. “I’m not sure, honestly.”

“He likes peaches,” someone said. “I once gave him a peach and he ate it straightaway.”

“Will the Beatles be back in studio on Wednesday?” Helen asked.

Marisol took the box and stowed it in the back seat. This girl knew more about Paul’s plans than she did. “I’m not sure of the day but I know it’s next week.”

“I’m hoping to see George again soon.”

The girls behind her clucked their agreement. “We haven’t seen George since India,” one of them said.

“Oh. Well. Happy hunting!” Marisol said, thinking that anything that took these girls away from the front of Paul’s home was hunky dory with her.

 

By the time Paul came home, a veggie lasagna was simmering in the oven and a fresh green salad was chilling in the fridge. Marisol cranked up the record player, hoping Bob Dylan would mitigate an argument about the fans.

Paul walked in holding a bouquet of daisies. "A little Dylan? That's certainly a nice way to come home.”

"A bouquet of flowers is even nicer.”

"Oh these? They’re not for you.” He stopped in front of her, searching her expression. “Everything all right?”

Marisol wondered if he was trying to figure out if she'd seen what the fans had written on the gate. She'd heard him raising his voice when he'd left earlier, and he'd come back in and bellowed for Mr. Kelly to join him outside. The gate was free from graffiti by the time Marisol had driven away in the Mini.

“Of course. I'm glad you're home. I'll open some wine.”

He seemed to relax. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her lips.

"Something told me you could use these."

Marisol took the flowers. “Thank you. They're lovely.”

He pulled her close, kissed her again. “I promise you things will be better once we're married.” 

“How do you mean?”

“For one thing, there won't be as many girls hanging around once I'm no longer single.”

Marisol could only hope that was true, but when they were married, everyone in the world would know her name and form judgements about her.

“Now they know my name, I’ll start getting hate mail.” 

Paul took a step back. “Aw, c’mon love. Do you think you might be getting a bit paranoid?”

Marisol’s jaw dropped. “I certainly am not. One of those wretched girls told me today she wanted to kill me.”

“You do realize she didn’t mean it literally,” Paul said, frowning. Then he brightened. “You should do what I do, use a fake name. I tell all my friends to write to me as Ian Ichamoe, so their letters stand out. Ian Ichamoe, that’s what Paul McCartney sounds like if you record it and play it backwards.

Marisol stared at him, incredulous. He just wasn’t getting it.

“Do you want me to record your name and play it backwards?”

Was he serious? “No, Paul. I don’t need to know what my name is backwards. I want you to do something about those horrid girls.”

The intrusive buzzer sounded at just that moment, and Paul gave a small eye roll. “All right. Jesus. I’ll have a word with them. Again.”

He stomped out of the room, swearing under his breath. Marisol heard him barking something into the speaker. Then she heard his voice soften and Melody’s happy squeals as Mrs. Kelly came in with the baby.

Marisol dropped the flowers into a pitcher, tears prickling her eyes. So much for recreating their time in France. How was it that Paul always left her feeling like the problems with the fans were her fault?

The door opened again and Marisol brushed her tears away with the back of her hand. 

Paul’s arms went around her, holding her close. “Listen, love. Don’t be upset. This will all work itself out. The fans don’t have anywhere to go because we’re not working now. Next week we’ll be in studio and they’ll naturally gravitate over there. And if they don’t, I’ll tell them to cool it, to go wait where we work.”

She nodded, sniffing, and leaned against him. A whiff of his aftershave made her head swim. When he was here, and close, and hers, it felt like all her worries melted away.

Paul breathed deeply. “What is that amazing smell?”

“The perfume you bought me in France?”

“No, it smells like tomato sauce. And fresh bread. I’m starving, me.”

Marisol laughed and pulled away, opening the oven a crack. Now she understood the real reason Paul wanted to make up so quickly. No matter. The baby was being entertained by Mr. and Mrs. Kelly and the fans hadn’t pressed the buzzer since Paul had shouted at them. With any luck, she just might have her fiancé all to herself for twenty minutes or so.

* * * * *

On the weekend, Paul and John Dunbar hosted a party at Indica Gallery and Bookstore to screen their new movies, The Defeat of the Dog and The Next Spring Then, for their closest friends and Beatles and wives.

Paul bought Marisol a new dress for the occasion, a Foale and Tuffin red crepe mini dress with a matching jacket. They arranged for a car to take them to a wine merchant, after which they planned to walk the few blocks to Indica. 

Paul kept looking at his watch and saying “C’mon, c’mon,” but Marisol was slow making her selection, and the shop was rapidly overwhelmed by Beatles fans. The proprietor rushed Paul and Marisol into the back of the shop while he tried to clear away the alarmingly huge crowd of fans, who then stood outside and pressed themselves against the windows, staring in as if everyone inside was a caged animal.

Paul called a cab to take them to Indica, less than three blocks away. They dashed out the back door and into a black cab, but somehow a fan managed to slip inside as well. She sat there between Paul and Marisol, looking almost as shocked as they were.

Finally the girl spoke, her voice quivering with excitement. “Paul, do you remember me? I threw myself on the front of your car outside the Astoria and I cut myself on the windscreen, and you saw I was hurt and frantically waved down a policeman.” The girl then yanked her jumper over the top of her bra to show him her scar.

Paul was rendered speechless for a good five seconds, staring openmouthed at the bare midriff and pale pink bra of the girl next to him. Then he told the driver to stop the car and told the girl politely but firmly that she’d have to get out.

When the girl was gone the driver pulled away from the curb and muttered, “I figured it was someone like you lot. Anyone else would have been able to walk there.” 

Paul chuckled the rest of the way, but Marisol didn’t see the humor. After another block they were delivered to the bookshop and they ran inside, out of breath, slamming the door behind them, and scurried downstairs to the gallery.

“That’s quite an entrance,” said John Lennon. He was slouched on a sofa, drink in hand, book open on his lap, with a relaxed and tanned Cynthia leaning her head on his shoulder.

“She just had to bring a bottle of wine,” Paul said, panting.

Marisol raised the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, still catching her breath. “It’s French,” she announced. “Filled with harmonious minerals and fruit.”

“I’m English,” John shot back. “Robust and spicy with a hearty, meaty character.”

Paul and Marisol were the last to arrive. There were a dozen colorful bean bags strewn around in front of a huge movie screen. Everyone helped themselves to sarnies and quiche and fruit crumble and their beverages of choice.

Paul was a natural born host, circling the room topping off a drink here, sparking a conversation there, and introducing Marisol to any of the guests she hadn’t already met.

It turned out that Paul’s movies were not like ordinary people’s home movies. They were unlike any movies Marisol had ever seen.

There were over exposures, double exposures, sliding orange lights, quick cuts from professional wrestling to a crowded car park to a close-up of a television weather map. There were long still shots of a grey cloudy sky and a wet grey pavement, jumping Chinese ivory carvings and affectionate slow motion studies of Cookie and Beau and the four or five cats. A French peasant woman tending a grave, her stockings halfway down her legs and revealing a lot of her knickers. A gendarme directing traffic and getting annoyed. A collage of fast cuts, swirling camerawork, blinding lights and surrealistic studies of a ticking clock, all synched to a tape loop symphony. The accompanying music, on a record player and faultlessly synchronized, was by the Modern Jazz Quartet and Bach.

John watched the first two minutes, then sprawled across the sofa with The Portable Nietzsche held a few inches from the end of his nose. The others drifted between the stocked bar and the room full of bean bags, doing far more chatting to each other than paying heed to the movies. Ringo appeared to be sleeping.

Sue Miles had made a batch of hash brownies for the event. The men got wrecked and discussed the nature of music and the possibilities of electronic music and random sound, a sort of crazed, stoned think meeting. 

Paul and Miles were talking very seriously about mastering two pieces of music on to a record, so that you’d have to switch out one of them with your brain. You’d say ‘I’m not listening to the Beethoven right now, I’m listening to the Beatles,’ but they would both be going on.”

“Good value for the money,” Paul enthused.

“You have to have the mental control to block the one out,” Miles added.

Marisol suspected they’d both over indulged on brownies. She went to the food table where the wives and girlfriends were gathered, gossiping and sharing baby stories. After a few minutes of this, Pattie was clearly bored of the baby talk and wandered off to browse the artwork.

The moment she left, Maureen and Cynthia whispered something about Pattie and George trying for a baby with no luck. Hearing this tidbit made Marisol immediately want to befriend Pattie. She knew what it felt like now to be an outsider, especially after living in London where strangers frowned at her every time she opened her mouth.

Pattie was wearing a pink mini dress, perfectly showcasing her long, thin legs. She was lovely, perhaps the cutest girl Marisol had ever laid eyes on. But she had a slightly shy air about her and their conversations so far had been a little strained.

Marisol sidled up to where Pattie stood gazing at some of the most bizarre paintings ever to be described as art. Lumps of cement, handbags, pieces of machinery and scraps of knickknacks glued together on a canvas and priced at £200.

“I don’t get this modern art,” Marisol said, gesturing at the wall. “I know it’s all about imagination, but…”

“Oh, modern art isn’t that hard to understand,” Pattie said. “If it hangs on a wall it’s a painting, and if you can walk around it it’s a sculpture.” She smiled adorably. Even the gap in her teeth was cute.

Marisol laughed. “Thank you. That helps enormously.”

“How are you finding London?” Pattie asked.

“Oh, it's wonderful. Just great. I love it. It's just…”

Pattie turned her big blue eyes on her, waiting. “Yes?”

Marisol hesitated. “Well…the fans are going to take some getting used to.”

“Oh god. You're not half wrong. We came home late one night and went straight to bed. George woke up with his arm hanging off the bed and felt something…he thought it was the cat, you know? Turns out there were two girls hiding under our bed.”

“You're shitting me.”

“I woke up to George yelling and swearing and racing around in his knickers chasing these two girls out of the house!”

“That’s insane!”

“He came back fuming, wondering how they'd got in, because we always lock the doors. But we’d left the bedroom window open so the cat could come and go.”

Marisol made a sympathetic noise. “I'd be shocked as pink paint! I’d never sleep again without first looking under the bed!”

Pattie continued browsing the room, trailing manicured fingertips over some of the more outrageous artwork. “He’s besotted with you, you know,” she said, with a secretive smile.

“Pardon?”

“Paul. His eyes follow you around the room. I’ve never seen him that way with anyone else.”

Marisol turned to look for Paul, and sure enough, his eyes were on her although he seemed to be in deep conversation. They locked eyes and he raised his eyebrows and winked at her. 

She felt a tingle down to her toes, that this beautiful man still seemed intrigued by her, even after two months of togetherness. Even after she caused him so much grief over her daily struggle with his smitten fans.

Pattie stopped in front of a roped off area. A pamphlet pinned to the doorway announced an upcoming art exhibition. The room had hardly anything in it but strange looking objects painted white with little messages written on them.

Crying machine: machine drops tears and cries for you when a coin is deposited: 3,000 dollars.

Disappearing machine: machine that allows an object to disappear when button is pressed: 1,500 dollars.

“God in heaven. What is this shit?” Pattie asked. “And who is Yoko Ono?”

“I’ve never heard of him,” Marisol admitted.

“Nor has anyone else.”

George walked up and linked arms with Pattie. They smiled at each other. “Ready to go?” George asked.  
“Not yet George.”

“I’m beyond ready,” George said. “Let's head to Sybilla’s.”

“Not there again. It's only tourists and hangers on.”

Marisol left them to hash it out. She wandered over to where John lay on the sofa on his back, poring through Nietzsche.

“Not interested in the art, John?”

“Avant-garde is French for bullshit,” John muttered, not taking his eyes off his book.

“How was your time in Spain?”

John rested the open book on his chest and peered at her over his glasses. “It was boring. Boring. Nothing but sand and desert and hills and mountains. We played a lot of Monopoly and Risk.

“You’ve both brought back a tan,” Marisol noted.

“The heat was terrific. Played a a game of cricket or two.”

“What about the acting, though? Did you enjoy it?”

“It was pretty damn boring to me. I didn’t find it, at all, very fulfilling.”

Marisol hadn’t been talking to John for more than a minute when she felt hands grip her shoulder and Paul was behind her asking if she needed anything. It seemed the films were finally over and the party was wrapping up, everyone gathering near the stairs.

“Thank you for the dubious honor of being among the first to view your films,” John announced, sitting up and closing his book.

“That’s two hours I’ll never get back,” George muttered.

“Oh right,” Paul said, jabbing his bandmate in the ribs. “What would you rather be doing? Sitting in a corner and meditating?”

“There’s nothing wrong with meditation,” George said defensively.

“I hear it can make ya go blind,” Ringo said merrily.

“It’s meditation, Rings. Not masturbation,” said John.

“What’s the difference?”

Ignoring the others, George focused on John. “You should try it, John.”

“Believe me, I have,” said John. “Why do you think I have to wear glasses?”

“Next Wednesday, right lads?” Paul said.

“Ah, right, you’re back in the studio is it?” Miles asked.

“Back in the studio where we can hear each other. And create any fantasy that comes out of anybody’s brain,” said Paul.

“Whatever we do, it has got to be real and progressive. Everything we’ve done so far has been rubbish, as I see it,” George said.

“I’ve got some ideas about that,” Paul said. “An alter ego type of thing. We can make an album without being the Beatles, maybe sing in a more sarcastic way because we’re playing roles.”

“The Beatles will go on and on whether we’re in them or not,” George said, sounding morose.

“Thank Christ for that,” Paul said, clapping George on the shoulder.

“Yeah, great,” George said, shrugging off Paul’s hand. “I suppose we’ll soon be in the newspapers again. The nicest thing these last months is opening the newspapers and not being in them.”

Paul smiled as George scowled, his piercing dark eyes flashing. For the first time, Marisol got the distinct impression that the two of them weren’t really seeing eye to eye about the future of the band.

 

After his big film debut, Paul wasn’t ready to call it a night. Black taxis were lined up outside and most of the revelers reconvened at Sybilla’s, with Mal pressed into duty to run interference. 

The club was located on a tiny side street behind Piccadilly Circus. The street was an alley, with almost no traffic, and no fans at this time of night. They piled out in front of the plain white door. Two young women exited a cab at the same time. Marisol could tell they recognized some of the Beatles, but they looked too stunned to speak. 

The others headed inside, calling greetings to a doorman who knew them by name. Paul held open the door to the club and looked at the women. “Coming in?”

The women stared straight ahead, not moving. Paul shrugged and ushered Marisol into the club. The moment the door closed they could hear the women screaming. “OhmygoditwasTHEM! It was HIM! He spoke to us!”

Paul barked out a laugh and took Marisol’s hand, leading her to a stairway. What must it be like, Marisol wondered, to have such an effect on people that they could be rendered speechless and immobile at the mere sight of you?

They started down the narrow stairs and met a young man coming the other way. He bumped into Paul, stumbling a little and singing drunkenly.

“Oi mate, take it easy,” Paul said, helping the young man to his feet and steadying him.

“We all live in a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine,” the young man continued to sing and sway.

Laughing, Paul took his arm and helped him navigate the rest of the stairs. “Careful, mate,” Paul said, sending the happy reveler off into the night with no idea that he’d just had a Beatle encounter while singing a Beatles song.

The manager himself met them at the door, shaking Paul’s hand and leading them through the club to a table at the back where the rest of their party were giving their drink orders to a smiling waitress. Colored lights flashed on and off and the walls were covered with mirrors, making the room seem much bigger than it actually was.

Paul draped his arm across the back of her chair, lightly playing with her hair and massaging her neck. Marisol relaxed against him, happily buzzed by the drink in front of her and the lively scene. A pretty girl in a booth beside the large square dance floor played the latest English music: Black Is Black, Bus Stop, Gimme Some Loving, Over Under Sideways Down.

When the girl played Yellow Submarine, the separate couples on the dance floor joined together in a circle holding each others’ hands and stomped and jumped around. The perfect party number, the song seemed to get everyone in a good mood. Everyone but Paul and George, that is.

After a few whiskey drinks, George began to grumble about how the need for tight security had robbed the Beatles of their freedom. Sometimes he couldn’t believe the cloistered atmosphere the Beatles lived in, he complained. Paul agreed with him. They couldn’t even dance in a club without people interrupting them and asking them stupid questions. As they mused about all of this, a young man approached Paul.

“Mate, eh, is Eric Burdon around?”

“Eric who?” Paul muttered, obviously irritated.

“You know, mate. Our Animal.”

“Your what?”

“I thought you Beatles knew all the blokes.”

“We Beatles ARE the blokes!” Paul shouted.

He shoved back his chair and stalked to the bathroom. Marisol gathered her jacket and purse. It was time to see her Beatle safely home.

 

Paul was unusually quiet on the cab ride home, which prompted Marisol to ask him what was up. 

He stroked his mustache, deep in thought. “John’s written three good songs. I have to get cracking. I can’t come into the studio next week with anything less than three good songs.”

He went straight to the music room after only a short peek in the baby’s room. Mrs. Kelly was sitting in a rocking chair, reading an Agatha Christie while Melody slept. At least she didn’t take her disapproval of their living arrangements out on the baby.

Marisol lay in bed that night listening to the sound of Paul playing the piano interspersed with squeals of pleasure from the girls camping out in front of the house. In another month she’d be Mrs. Paul McCartney. Hopefully Mrs. Kelly would stop viewing her as a tart. The fans who wanted to marry Paul would calm down, Paul said. And maybe this mansion would stop seeming like a hotel and feel more like her permanent home.


	17. Chapter 17

[](https://imgur.com/VPbH4lz)

 

**_“Early Wednesday morning a mustached Paul McCartney was spotted squiring a pretty young blonde through London’s Heathrow Airport while pushing a pram. Is the last single Beatle secretly married? Or is he hiding a Secret Beatles Love Child? Watch this space for exclusive details!” — Daily Sketch_ **

 

In hindsight, it might not have been the best decision for Paul to accompany his baby and his baby’s mama through Heathrow Airport on one of the busiest travel days of the year.

In line at the Pan Am check in counter Paul was asked for his autograph almost immediately. The orderly queue of coach passengers, largely comprised of what seemed to be American students flying home for Thanksgiving, left their places and crowded around Paul, snapping photos and shouting at him, an excited buzz.

“I should go,” Paul whispered in Marisol’s ear. “This is getting dicey. Will you be all right?”

 _No_ , she wanted to yell, _Don't leave me! I need you! Don’t leave me trapped in a silver tube with this toddler for the next twelve hours!_ She wanted to sob and cling to him. She wanted to wail and beat her breast.

Paul would be mortified. Nobody cried in public in England. That was for Italians and people like that.

“Of course.” She smiled thinly. “I’ve got this. Piece of cake.”

He gave her a quick perfunctory kiss that would have passed the ratings board in any Disney movie. “Bye, lovely,” he whispered. “Call me when you arrive.” And he was gone. As if he didn’t want to be seen with her and their baby in a crowd.

That was ridiculous, Marisol chided herself. Paul was the one pushing for a Christmas wedding, while she nearly cringed at the thought. They were getting married in a month and she hadn’t done a single thing to prepare. It was almost as if she was in denial.

Melody fretted in her stroller, wanting out. Marisol reached in her bag and handed the baby her stuffed fuchsia elephant. “No! No! Dada!” Melody squealed, swatting the elephant away. It bounced off the legs of the business man in front of the them. He retrieved the toy and handed it to Marisol, frowning slightly. Praying they wouldn’t be on his flight, Marisol suspected.

“Sorry. So sorry,” Marisol said, feeling her face flush. She felt like every eye was on her. Whispers reached her ears. She imagined every passenger in line openly discussing her possible connection with the magnificent black-haired Beatle who’d appeared suddenly in their midst and then disappeared.

Melody arched her back and tilted her face up to where her parents should be. Seeing only Marisol, she leaned out of her stroller and looked around at the frightening sea of legs surrounding her in the queue. None of them belonged to her daddy. She opened her mouth and wailed.

“Ssh! Ssssshhhh!” Letting her purse slide off her arm onto the ground, Marisol unbuckled her squirming, crying daughter and lifted her to her shoulder.

“I KNOW you want Daddy. I KNOW you want Daddy. I KNOW you want Daddy,” she said quietly but forcefully.

That was a trick her mother had taught her. _“She’s screaming because she wants to tell you something, and she has no other way to communicate. All you need to do is validate the child. Repeat what it is she wants three times.”_ Marisol thought it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard, until she tried it a few times and it worked with her screaming daughter. It made Melody stop screaming and listen to her.

Melody blinked at her, tears streaming down her face. “Dadddyyy,” she wailed.

“I want him too,” Marisol said, feeling like crying herself. “But we’ll see him very soon, and guess what? We’re going to see Mimi! And Sophie and Lucy! And the horses!”

At the word horses, Melody let out a shuddering sigh. “Daddy,” she whispered, letting her head fall on Marisol’s shoulder. She brought her thumb to her mouth, trying to comfort herself.

“I know, sweetheart.” Marisol swayed back and forth, patting her daughter’s tiny back. “I promise we’ll see him very soon, right after we see the horses. And all the California people who love you.”

The queue of first class passengers shuffled forward, and a grandmotherly looking woman behind her gestured at Marisol’s handbag before carefully picking it up and placing it on the seat of the stroller. “There you are dear.”

“Thank you,” Marisol said, inching the stroller forward. Paul had checked all their luggage with a porter outside the terminal, so it was only a matter of showing their passports and getting her seat assignment and then they’d be directed to the first class lounge until their flight was called. Hopefully she’d be able to keep her baby from screaming and alienating all the other first class passengers, who looked to be mostly businessmen planning to get some work done on the Trans-Atlantic flight to New York.

Melody gave out a little shaky sob and Marisol shushed her and patted her back a little more forcefully. This was looking like it could be one hell of a long day. In twelve hours she’d be home, she thought, then stopped herself. London was her home now. This foreign feeling place where even the tap water tasted different and she sometimes had to concentrate to understand the accents and the humor often eluded her. When, she wondered, would London start to feel like home?

  
* * * * *

  
“I’m going to have to cancel my subscription to _Cosmopolitan_ magazine, now _that woman_ has gone and sexed it up.” Mrs. Hemingway huffed and tossed a magazine face down on the kitchen desk with the rest of the day’s mail.

Five year old Sophie looked up from her coloring book. “What does sexed up mean, Mimi?”

“It means selling little girls down the river to objectification by men,” Mrs. Hemingway said. “Now where is my pumpkin pie recipe?”

As soon as her grandmother turned her back, Sophie reached for the magazine. “These ladies are all pretty.”

“Yes, they are,” Marisol agreed. “Your mommy used to be one of those ladies.”

“I want to do this when I grow up.”

“What do you want to do exactly?” Marisol had never imagined Sophie as the preening model type. Lucy, maybe, but not quiet, focused Sophie.

“I want to make clothes for pretty ladies to wear.”

“Oh. Good for you.” Marisol stroked her niece’s flaxen hair.

 

It was the day that would never end. Marisol and Melody had left London at six in the morning, traveled for twelve hours, and arrived in San Francisco well before lunch. Melody had fallen asleep just after dinner and would probably wake up in the middle of the night completely confused. Marisol longed to join her in bed, but there were pies to fill and nieces to play with and the best thing to do was power through the jet lag.

“Darling, I need you to whip these egg whites with sugar until they form stiff peaks.”

“Stiff peaks,” Marisol repeated, glad to have been given a noisy job. With the mixer on, she wouldn’t feel the need to respond to her mother’s constant pontification about her new favorite subject.

The instant the mixer was off, Mrs. Hemingway flawlessly picked up the threads of the conversation that had consumed her from the moment Marisol stepped off the plane. “We’ll pick out your dress before you leave, dear, and we can have it shipped. Now have you confirmed a venue? Of course you can marry at a registrar’s office if you must but you need to have the marriage blessed in a church, have you given any thought to that? And we’ll need a luncheon afterwards, the Dorchester perhaps?”

“Does nutmeg have an expiration date?” Marisol said, examining the tiny glass bottle.

Mrs. Hemingway looked up from the pie crust she was crimping. “Marisol? You really should be writing this down. Honestly. You act as though this wedding is the last thing on your mind.”

Marisol put the nutmeg on the counter. “Somehow I can’t picture us getting married in London. If you knew what his life is like…I can see it turning into a huge circus.” She tapped her thumb against her bottom lip, picturing the scene: walking out of a chapel in a wedding gown arm in arm with Paul, picking their way through not rice but weeping girls strewn across the church steps.

Marisol’s mother stopped what she was doing and dusted her hands on her apron. She moved closer to Marisol, her fists on her hips, peering at her over her reading glasses.

“What? Stop looking at me.”

“Don’t touch your face that way, you’ll have breakouts,” her mother said. “If you’re having second thoughts about this man, I can be on the next flight to London to—“

“No Mother, don’t get your hopes up, I am not having second thoughts.” Marisol scrubbed her hands through her hair. “Ugh. I don’t know what it is, it’s like a mental block—“

“What’s second thoughts mean, Mimi?” Sophie asked from the kitchen table.

“It’s your intuition telling you to run.”

“Mother. That is not necessary.”

“While you’re here, shall I see if we can get you in to the salon? That hair of yours—“

The door to the kitchen burst open, and Marisol’s brother stood in the doorway, his eyes wide. “Herman,” he said, using the abbreviated form of the Spanish word for sister that had always been his name for her. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

“What? Why don’t you help make some pies, you lazy git.”

“Paul McCartney has a kid, it’s on the evening news.”

“Oh shit,” Marisol whispered, her heart stuttering. “What are you talking about?”

“I know what oh shit means,” Sophie said, pursing her lips.

“After the break, Paul McCartney addresses rumors he’s fathered a child by an American heiress,” Marcus said, mimicking a television news anchor.

Marisol and her mother exchanged glances. “Here we go,” Marisol whispered.

“Do you want I should kick her ass, this heiress person?” Marcus said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Shut up Marcus,” Marisol said, racing past him into the living room.

It was agony waiting through commercials for shaving cream and cigarettes and deodorant and Pillsbury biscuits until finally the news anchor returned, with a smile on his face.

_**“Hearts are breaking all over England tonight and soon the rest of the world as Paul McCartney announced he has fathered a child by American heiress Marisol Hemingway.”** _

“Oh my god,” Marisol whispered, holding her stomach, suddenly nauseous at hearing her name on a national news broadcast.

**_“Miss Hemingway is the granddaughter of American author Ernest Hemingway, who died by his own hand from a shotgun blast more than four years ago.”_ **

“Christ. They had to bring that up,” Marcus snarled.

“Quiet!” Marisol shouted.

With a squeak of alarm, Sophie ran to the sofa where her sister Lucy sat calmly buttoning a glittery evening gown onto her favorite Barbie doll.

Marisol sank to her knees in front of the television as the news anchor was replaced by a clip of Paul caught outside the electronic gates of his Cavendish home.

“Paul! Are you and Marisol Hemingway secretly married?” a reporter shouted at him, shoving a microphone in his face.

Paul looked up from his Aston Martin with the geniality that never seemed to falter. He listened to the question, considered, and replied, “Just say that when you asked me that, I smiled.” With a little wave, he roared off.

_**“Mr. McCartney later confirmed that although the couple have been engaged for “quite some time,” they have no immediate plans to wed.”** _

The news anchor’s voice continued over the clip of Paul driving his Aston Martin into the parking lot of EMI studios.

_**“Miss Hemingway is the sister of former fashion model Margo Hemingway. She resides in Sonoma, California with her parents and could not be reached for comment.”** _

There was Paul again, stepping out of his car, met with flashbulbs and microphones thrust at him. Dressed in a double-breasted black jacket and carrying his guitar, a brief deer in the headlights look was replaced with his typical measured calm as he answered the questions shouted at him.

_“Paul, is it true you have fathered a baby with Marisol Hemingway?”_

“Yes, we are very lucky to have a beautiful daughter.”

_“How old is she?”_

_“Why haven’t you admitted to being the father?”_

_“Why are you hiding her?”_

“We’re not hiding anything. We wanted to keep her out of the public eye for as long as possible. For her safety, mainly.” He smiled angelically. “We couldn't wait to share the news with you wonderful people. You’re all just great.”

At Paul’s elbow, Mal urged him along, clearing a path to the studio steps.

The journalists continued to shout.

_“Paul! One more question! Paul! Over here! Can you tell us about the mother? Why haven’t you married her?”_

“We want to be married as soon as possible. You’ll be the first to know.”

_“Are you engaged?”_

“Yes, yes, engaged for quite some time now. Sorry, have to run.”

_“Why haven’t you married her, Paul?”_

Paul licked the corner of his mouth, where his scar was still covered by his vacation mustache.

“We want to be married very soon. She…we…her family has had some health problems and she was needed at home.”

“What the fuck?” Marcus scowled.

“Language!” Mrs. Hemingway warned.

“Who is ill?” Mr. Hemingway wanted to know.

At the top of the steps, Paul turned to face the crowd of reporters. “Here's your headline, gentlemen. ‘The Beatles ended three months of separation tonight and got together to make a record. Reports that they were breaking up have been denied’.” He smiled and waved. “Thank you, thanks for coming.”

_“Paul, are you at all concerned that mental illness runs in the Hemingway family?”_

Marisol gasped, along with everyone else in the Hemingway living room.

Even the unflappable Paul looked stunned by the question. His mouth opened and shut without a sound coming out. His face looked ashen.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Paul finally sputtered. “It’s gonna be fine, you watch.”

Neil Aspinall appeared out of nowhere. “That will be all, gentlemen.” A flurry of arms and jackets and dark hair and the studio door slammed closed.

 

“Oh my god,” Marisol moaned.

“Cocksuckers!” Marcus growled.

“Marcus, I'm not going to tell you again!” their mother warned. She swept to the television and flicked off the switch.

Marisol’s father cleared his throat and headed in the direction of the liquor cabinet.

Marisol sat on the floor, too stunned to move or think clearly.

The question about her family may have been cruel, but it hadn't come entirely out of left field. Both Marisol's grandfather and great grandfather had killed themselves after battling depression and other illnesses. But the look on Paul's face was as if he'd never considered the implications. What was he thinking now? Was he worried that Marisol would suffer from depression or that it wasn't safe to have a family with her?

Tears filled her eyes at the thought of Paul coming home tonight to an empty house and having second thoughts about HER, while she was thousands of miles away. Why couldn’t this have happened while she was in London where they could face it together and hold each other and have mindless sex all night long instead of being an ocean apart, where they had to THINK.

The phone started ringing within seconds. No one moved, until Mr. Hemingway returned, full drink in hand, and snatched up the receiver.

“No, she isn’t in. If we have anything to say we’ll call you.” He slammed down the phone. “Pesky hack journalist bastards.”

“Will you watch your language please in front of these children?”

Sophie bounced on the sofa. “Mimi, what is a—“

Lucy let out a piercing scream. “You made me lose Barbie’s other silver shoe!”

“Shush!” Mrs. Hemingway turned to her husband. She was practically vibrating with nerves. “He just had to announce it today when I’m in the midst of preparing Thanksgiving dinner for twelve!”

Mr. Hemingway handed his drink to his wife. She downed it with a shaking hand and returned the empty glass. She walked away, calling over her shoulder, “Marisol, we have pies to finish.”

“Oh my god, Mother!” Marisol hugged her knees to her chest, dropping her forehead onto them. “Nobody gives a fuck about the pies!”

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, Marisol didn't hesitate to answer it. Her father had driven down to the main road in the Chevy pickup truck with the rifle rack across the back window. No one could make it to the front door without being vetted by him. And Marcus zoomed away in his red T-bird, off to purchase a new lock for the front gate. They would hunker down at the family compound, the way they did after Papa died when the family was besieged by the press.

On the front porch, fresh-faced and windblown, stood Marisol's best friend since grade school. Donna was a few inches taller than Marisol, slim and strong from years of ballet lessons, and she gave the best hugs.

"Donner! I missed you so hard. How did you know I was home?"

"Are you kidding? The entire country knows you're home."

"You saw that?"

"Me and 50 million others. I'm only guesstimating. Nice high school yearbook photo, by the way."

"What? What channel was _that_ on?"

"Walter Cronkite."

Marisol's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh for fuck's sake. Really?"

Donna nodded soberly.

"The one with the...?" Marisol circled one hand over her head.

"So I came over to see if you'd teach me how you got your hair to do that...that flip thing. It practically defies gravity."

In spite of the debacle of the last thirty minutes, Marisol laughed. And laughed some more. "Oh my hell. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse."

Donna patted her oversized orange macrame handbag. "The good news is, I brought rum. Leilani Hawaiian to be exact."

"You are a goddess."

"Hi kiddos." Donna waved to the twins as they passed through the living room.

"I'm scared, Aunt Mari," Sophie said.

"It's not a real monster," Lucy said disdainfully.

"Don't watch  _Lost in Space_ , girls. Your mom says it gives you nightmares. What else is on?" Marisol flicked the dial over the other two networks. "Watch  _Flipper._ "

"I brought you girls something." Donna held up two gum ball machine troll dolls in their plastic capsules. She handed the pink haired one to Lucy and the purple one to Sophie. Lucy examined hers for only a second before swapping with her sister.

"I don't like pink."

Sophie smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Aunt Mari's friend Donner."

"What do you say, Lucy?" Marisol demanded.

"Thanks," Lucy said, tucking the unopened toy in the pocket of her corduroy pants, her attention back on the television.

"Where is your mother anyway?"

"She went to Woolworth's," Sophie said. "She got her period."

"Oh. Nice."

"Do women get their periods on the weekends too?" Lucy asked.

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ," Lucy muttered under her breath.

Donna snorted a laugh.

"Don't let your grandmother hear you swear," Marisol said, adding, "That child is a work in progress," when they were out of earshot.

"And six going on thirty," said Donna.

They stopped by the bar fridge to pick up two highball glasses with ice and a carton of ruby red grapefruit juice, and soon they were cross-legged in the middle of Marisol's bed knocking back cocktails.

"Cheers!" Donna clinked Marisol's glass. "Here's to my most infamous friend."

"Fantastic."

"Where's the baby?"

"Sleeping like a baby."

"I tried to call but your phone rings and rings."

"Mmm. Dad jerked the cord out of the wall after the fourth phone call." Marisol took a long gulp of her drink, her hand shaking a little as she lowered the glass, ice cubes clinking. "God that's good. You are an angel from heaven."

Donna leaned in and rested a gentle hand on Marisol's knee. "How are you? Are you okay?

"I've been better. I wish I knew what Paul was thinking, you know, if he's having second thoughts now, if he thinks my family is crazy."

Donna made a scoffing sound. "He'd better not be. Yes, your family is crazy, he knew that the first time he met them. He's still lucky to have you."

"Ha. Thanks."

"Haven't you talked to him? Didn't he tell you he'd talked to the press?"

"Well...he spoke to my mother while we were still in the air and asked her to have me call as soon as we landed. I tried a couple of times and there wasn't any answer, but I thought he was just checking on us so I didn't worry about it. And now it's, what..." She glanced at her watch. "...three in the morning over there."

"I can't believe he didn't tell you this was coming! What a jackass!"

"Stop it. He tried." Marisol shrugged. "He can't call now anyway, the phone's ripped out of the wall." She reached for the bottle of rum and refilled her glass. "Do you want to hear how sweet he was in Paris?"

"Wait while I find my pretend to like him face."

"Donna."

"Oh all right." Donna sighed theatrically. "If he makes you happy then I'm happy. Tell me all about Paris with Prince McCharming. The Disney version, please. I have a weak stomach."

"Mmm. It was the most amazing holiday." She refilled Donna's glass and gave her the highlights of their pre wedding honeymoon in France. The Disney version.

Three cocktails later, Marisol stopped her story, suddenly feeling weepy. "What if he doesn't love me any more?" she whispered.

"Then you'll find a nice California boy and live happily ever after in the mountains in a lovely cabin next to mine." Donna tossed back the rest of her drink and put her glass on the bedside table. "Sadly for me, though, Lover Boy looked pleased as punch announcing your engagement." She frowned. "Until that last bit. I'm not sure what happened there."

"Ughhh." Lying back on the bed, Marisol balanced her drink on her stomach, closing her eyes. "I forgot how rum makes me sad."

Donna joined her on the pillow, their heads touching, and patted Marisol's hand. "Want me to spend the night?"

"Yes please. And let's talk about anything else. How is your dad? Tell me what's happening in Hollywood."

"You betcha. I saw Julie Andrews a couple of weeks ago. She's filming a Christmas show that my dad has something to do with."

"Mary Poppins? I love her. What's she like?"

"Great. We talked about dance. She said the harness she was in for the Mary Poppins film was excruciating. And at the end, when she's flying around in the clouds over London with that umbrella? She felt a wire break and she plummeted to the stage and swore like a sailor."

"She's so badass. I wish I could see that part on film."

There was a loud noise from the hallway just before the bedroom door opened with a bang. Margo's hair was spilling out of her usually neat chignon and she gestured with a half empty glass of wine. "Are you trying to turn my hair gray?" she demanded. "I can't go to Woolworth's without my little sister ending up on the nightly news?"

"Where did you go, Nevada? Good job leaving me alone with Mother and the pumpkin pies."

Margo waved a dismissive hand. "Paul's on the phone."

"What? How?" Marisol tried to spring off the bed but one of her legs didn't cooperate. She slid/rolled onto the carpet with her drink held high over her head.

"Nice save!" Donna commented.

"Didn't spill a drop!"

Margo laughed. "You've been with Mother six hours and you're already wasted."

"I'm not. My foot fell asleep." It took extra effort to keep her words from sounding slurred. Marisol carefully placed her drink on the nightstand and crawled to the door where Margo yanked her to her feet.

"I thought the phone was broken." Marisol swayed a little as she tried to focus on her sister's face.

"He's on the phone in the winery." Margo winked. "I've been back from the drug store for hours."

"Why you little..." Marisol hiccuped, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh shit...Paul is going to break up with me and I'm so wasted."

"No he isn't, dumbass. He sounds frantic. He says he's been calling for hours. Come on."

The cold night air was like a sobering slap in the face. Still, Marisol wished she hadn't been drinking for the last hour. Rum always made her melancholy and anxious, and she probably needed a clear head for this conversation.

Emotion rose in her chest like a salty tide when they reached the tasting room of the winery and she saw the telephone receiver off the hook, lying on the reception counter. Marisol was suddenly overcome with the odd sensation that this conversation would change the course of her life.

She took a deep breath, counted to five and let it out. "Hello?" she said, her voice quaking.

"It's about bloody time you answered." Paul's melodious voice carried across the Transatlantic phone line loud and clear.

"Paul?"

"Yes, of course it's me, I've been ringing you for hours. Every bloody American expat in England is calling home tonight tying up the lines. Didn't your mother tell you to call?"

"I tried to get through too, and then it got so late, I thought you'd be—"

"Was it on the nightly news? Did you see how I was ambushed?"

"I saw it," Marisol whispered.

"Pardon?"

"Yes, I saw it," she said, louder this time. "It was on the news."

"Right. Listen love. Our plans need changing."

_And there it was._ Her worst fears confirmed. Paul was calling off their engagement. At the very least he'd postpone it while he had her crazy family checked out. He likely didn't want to marry into her family at all. Suddenly she felt like she might be sick. She sank to the floor, her back against one of the oak barrels supporting the wooden counter, and drew her knees up to her chest.

"I'm listening," she said unsteadily, then twisted the phone so the mouthpiece was above her head, not wanting Paul to hear her having a breakdown when he broke up with her over the phone.

"What's going on?" Donna demanded.

"Ssh," Margo whispered. "Be cool. She's fine."

Margo gripped Donna's upper arm and dragged her away, presumably to give Marisol some privacy, although Marisol was thinking she'd really rather have the two of them close by so they could hang up the phone when she threw up.

"The press are breathing down my back. I can't have the two of you flying back into this circus," Paul said.

Ducking her chin, Marisol squeezed her eyes closed.  _So that's it then._ He didn't want them back in London. Granted, she's been nothing but trouble lately, complaining about the fans, the housekeeper, the lack of privacy. And sometimes after taking care of the baby all day she's been too tired to give him her full attention the way he wants at night. And now with all the unwanted scrutiny from the press while he is trying to work...she can almost understand why Paul wants a break from her, but she hadn't really believed he'd heartlessly break up with her over the phone.  


"Marisol, are you there love?"

She swiveled the phone so the mouthpiece rested against her chin and lowered her forehead onto her knees. "I'm here," she croaked over the lump in her throat. A hot tear slid down her cheek and into her lap.

"I knew we should have gotten on top of this thing, and now it's blown up and I've got journalists camped outside my door."

"We'll stay here. Whatever you want."

"We have to be back in the studio next week," Paul continued, "but John's doing some bullshit television show so I can take a few days off. Nothing like last minute, right?"

"I'll have to get my dogs." Marisol gulped back a sob. She'd have to go to England to get her dogs.

"You what? They're fine, love. The Kellys can watch the dogs. Listen love, we're going to need to move the wedding up at bit. Obviously."

Marisol sniffed and rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. She lifted the phone from her face and stared at it for a second before bringing it back to her ear. Paul was still talking, but she'd lost the thread of the conversation. "What did you just say?"

"I said, how does Saturday sound?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Can we do a wedding by Saturday?"

Marisol's heart began beating erratically. She'd been so convinced Paul was breaking up with her that the conversation made no sense. "Are you saying you want to get married...on Saturday before Christmas?"

"Pay attention love. Three days from now. Saturday. I don't want you flying back into this madness. We'll get married and there will be a big hullaballoo for a few days and then it will all settle down and we can get on with it."

His consonants were muffled and she knew it was because he'd put a cigarette between his lips. Sure enough, she heard the metallic snap of a lighter and the sound of him taking a long drag. The phone line hissed and crackled. "Are you still there?"

"Yes," she said weakly. "Can you just...can you hold on a minute?"

She dropped the phone onto her lap and looked up through blurry eyes to find Donna's concerned face peering down at her.

"What's going on?"

"He wants to marry me. On Saturday. The one in three days."

Margo squealed.

"Fuck me," Donna moaned. "They're doing it."

"Wait. Wait." Marisol pressed her fingers into her temple. "We can't have a wedding on Saturday. How is that possible?"

"Yes you can!" Margo shouted. "Don't you dare put it off again. Give me the phone."

Marisol clamped the phone to her ear, trying to hear what Paul was saying while at the same time swatting Margo away. She suddenly felt completely sober. "Sweetheart. Saturday is impossible. We don't even have a cake. We can't do anything on Saturday."

"Course we can," Paul said, his voice strong and confident. "You can make anything happen if you throw enough money at it. I'll pay for everything. Call NEMS, Brian will take care of whatever you need. Get yourself a beautiful dress."

"You want me to buy a wedding dress...for Saturday..."

Margo grabbed Donna's hands and did a little happy dance in the middle of the room, but Donna wasn't having it and the dance soon ended. Donna walked to the windows and stared morosely out at the purplish green hillsides. Margo began digging in her purse in search of some essential item she simply must have at that very moment.

"I'll be there in two days," Paul was saying. "And I want what's mine."

_What does that even mean?_ Marisol wanted to ask, but she wondered if the words, and the entire conversation come to think of it, would all make sense if she hadn't been drinking, so she said nothing.

"Tell me you love me," Paul said.

She smiled. "I do. I love you. So much."

"I love you too, baby. Kiss Mel for me. I'll see you very soon."

The phone slipped from her hand and she brought both palms to her cheeks. "Oh. My. God. He wants to marry me." Her heart seemed to freeze, then pound. "In three days."

"I've got this." Margo licked her thumb and paged through the tiny address book she'd pulled out of her handbag. "There she is. My friend Priscilla has a bridal shop in the city. You'll need something chic and elegant and hourglass shape that will make his eyes pop out." Margo passed a critical eye over her sister, seeming to take her measurements. "And you'll need a trousseau."

"A what?" Donna wrinkled her nose.

"You'll need some sexy lingerie, of course, and a traveling suit. I'm thinking something white and creamy and sophisticated for when you arrive in London as the new Mrs. Paul McCartney. When the newshounds see you their jaws will drop and they'll forget what they were going to yell at you. Give me the phone."

"She still does that," Donna said.

"Hmmm?" Marisol was lying on her back like a starfish while the room spun around her. Margo's words rang in her ears. _The new Mrs. Paul McCartney._

_"_ She dresses you like you're her Barbie doll."

"I'm okay with it," Marisol said, staring dreamily up at the ceiling. This would be the perfect room for their reception, she thought, and she began to giggle. She was marrying Paul. In three days.

Donna peered down at her, her face lined with concern. "Are you sure about all this?"

"Am I sure about getting married on Saturday?" Marisol coughed a laugh. "Not remotely." She sat up and grinned at her friend. "But am I sure I love this man with everything I have? Absolutely. He's the one, Donner."

Tears were leaking from her eyes and Marisol wondered about her mental stability - crying to laughing to crying within the space of a few minutes and sometimes at the same time - but she figured the situation warranted it. She'd been up since dawn, twelve hours traveling with a baby, watched her fiancé announce their engagement and child on national television, and it was only early evening in California. It was the day that never ended.

Then Donna was crying too and they were hugging and sniffling and Marisol said, "Will you be in my wedding on Saturday?"

"If I must," Donna said on a groan, and they laughed and hugged again. "My mom can help. She plans parties all the time. She knows who to call."

"My mother is going to lose her shit," Marisol said. "She was hysterical over Thanksgiving for twelve."

"We could put twinkly lights all over this room," Donna said, looking around. She stood and held out her hand. "Get up, lazy ass. Take me to your Christmas decorations."

Margo hung up the phone with a whoop. "Priscilla says she can be here first thing Friday morning with a trunk full of gowns." She grabbed Marisol with one hand and Donna with the other.

"Because we're goin' to the chapel and we're gonna get married, goin' to the chapel and we're gonna get married," Margo sang loudly and slightly off key. "Gee I really love you and we're gonna get married, going to the chapel of love!"

Even Donna got into the spirit as they whirled around the room, singing and giggling like schoolgirls, until Marisol warned that she was about to be sick. They dropped hands, and Marisol rested her head against Donna's shoulder until the room stopped spinning. It turned out that Hawaiian rum and red grapefruit juice and wild dancing after being awake for 24 hours was a very bad combination.

_Hell's bells. She was getting married in three days._  "I'm marrying Paul," Marisol whispered. She hiccuped and covered her mouth with a giggle.

And suddenly she couldn't wait for Friday, when Paul would be here, smelling like magic and rocking her world. And in three days, she would be  _Mrs. Paul McCartney._ She gasped and covered her mouth, stumbling toward the bathroom at the back of the winery and praying she made it in time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

The sky was spitting snow when the Austin Princess slid to a smooth stop in front of Heathrow Terminal 3. In the back seat, Paul and Mal both patted their jacket pockets at the same time. Mal spoke first. “Got the tickets. Passport?”

Paul nodded and handed it over. “Here you go mate.”

He raised the collar of his overcoat, tightened the grey wool scarf around his neck and adjusted the flat cap low on his head. In this weather everyone was bundled up. He'd easily make it inside the terminal without being recognized, but according to plan Mal would check them in and return with an airline rep to deliver them by car to the jet. Next stop America.

“Temperature all right back there?” the driver asked.

“Hunky dory.” Paul closed his eyes, leaned his head against the back of the leather seat and settled in to wait and think about the momentous journey ahead of him. He would return to England a married man.

“Is this a shotgun wedding or summat?” Mike had asked when Paul called and told him they’d be flying to California first thing in the morning. “Are you sure about this? Aren’t you going to miss having a random shag now and then?”

Paul assured him he’d had enough random shags to last a lifetime. For good measure, he reminded little brother of the time he’d had four in a bed. Three gorgeous blondes and Paul. That life was something, all right, but it was behind him now. Waking up to old drinks and strange ladies had worn thin. He’d happily trade that lifestyle for someone waiting at home every night with a hot meal and encouraging words and a warm bed. Someone who understood him, who he could trust, relax with be himself with. A partner, someone to raise a family with. Someone with long, shiny hair, gorgeous legs and amazing tits. Someone exactly like Marisol.

No, he wasn’t nervous about becoming a married man. What did he have to lose, other than indiscriminate shagging? He was more anxious that Marisol would change her mind.

She had more to lose: her privacy, her anonymity, her friends and family in California. In exchange for the promise from him that he would love her forever and somehow protect her from the vultures that would descend the moment she stepped back on English soil.

He wondered what her family thought of these last minute wedding plans. He'd soon find out. None of these American Hemingways were likely to keep anything to themselves.

So different from Jane's family. He remembered the careful way the Ashers were with one another, considering every word before they said it, treating each other as if they were made of blown glass.

His future American in-laws never hesitated to tell him what they thought, good or bad. At least he knew where he stood with them. And right now he'd bet his sweet English arse they were most displeased about their daughter’s pretty face splashed across tabloids worldwide.

Mal opened the door and stood aside, letting in a gust of snow. When Paul didn't immediately follow, he stuck his head inside and grinned. “Having second thoughts?”

“Course not, you bloody fool.” He pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. “Just don't want to forget anything.”

“You look white as a ghost.” Mal said. He was full of foolish grins and nudges which Paul ignored. He climbed out of the car and nodded at the airline representative.

“Hello, sir.”

They shook hands. “Mr. McCartney. If you'll follow me, we’ll have you on your way in no time.”

The airplane wasn’t ready. The weather was uncooperative. But the agent was optimistic that it wouldn’t be much of a delay. Paul was hustled through the crowded terminal to a private waiting room.

Can I get you some coffee, sir?”

“That'd be great,” Paul said, and settled in to wait some more.

He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. Studio until two, then the mad dash of packing and making sure everything was arranged with Mal and Mike for the journey to California.

Brian's office had booked him to New York on Pan Am. From there he would helicopter to a private airport in New Jersey where a crew waited to fly him across the country to California in Frank Sinatra’s private plane. It was good being a Beatle. All those sorts of details arranged for him, leaving his mind free to concentrate on more important things, like Marisol’s face when she laid eyes on the surprise he had planned for her.

Marisol. His lips curved at the thought of his lovely bride, sleeping peacefully, dreaming of…he had no idea what girls dreamed of actually, but it probably went something like _bunny rabbits sex acts Paul Newman Max Factor makeup Laura Ashley curtains baby shoes Tiffany’s jewelry…_

The ring! He checked his left pocket, then his right. He peered into his carry on bag — nothing but a bit of reading material for the flight and the necklace he'd bought for his bride.

He was sure it was in his pocket when he'd left the house. Had he left it in the limousine? It was bound to gone by now and they had no way of calling back the driver.

He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, but there was no ring. Nothing in the other pocket either, just a few English pence and an empty chewing gum wrapper. _Shit._ Had he dropped it in the airport somewhere or left it in the limo? In a hot panic, he spun around and dashed for the door to the airport lobby. When he reached for the doorknob, he realized there was something in his hand. It was the ring box. He’d been switching it from one hand to the other as he checked his pockets and rooted through his bag.

His hands shook as he opened the box to check the ring was safely inside. Relief flooded through him. _You really must calm the fuck down_ , he told himself.

With a sigh, he collapsed in the chair at the table and rested his head on his arms. He closed his eyes and a hundred thoughts filtered in: the bleak ten hour journey ahead, followed by the reward waiting at the end—his bride and their sweet baby. The prospect of facing the media when they returned, married. The far more enjoyable prospect of unpacking all her things in his home, starting their lives together. And then his brain went down its favorite path: Marisol naked in every imaginable position.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, letting in a burst of announcements and general airport clatter. He looked up to see a pretty airline hostess, bearing a tray of coffee and pastries. She placed it before him with a warm smile.

“Mr. McCartney, your coffee.”

He thanked her and reached for the cream.

The hostess didn’t leave. He looked up expectantly. Her cheeks were flushed pink.

She licked her red painted lips. “Iloveyourmusiceversomuch.” A string of words in a breathless rush.

“Oh. Thank you.” His flicker of a smile seemed to spur her on.

A slender hand with red lacquered fingernails pressed over her heart. “I’m your biggest fan. I think you're ever so good. Your music means everything to me.”

“Do you reckon so? Well you're very kind. I love playing it.”

“ _Revolver_ changed my life.”

“Well. That’s good. I mean, if it needed changing, that is.”

“It did.”

“Okay. Well. That’s good then. Glad we could help.”

He blew on the coffee and took a sip. He nodded at the hostess.

She licked her red painted lips. “Can I get you anything else? Anything at all?”

She was blonde and pretty and reminded him vaguely of another stewardess he’d spent a night with once in New York…or maybe it was Minneapolis. She smiled and leaned in closer, offering a better view down the front of her crisp white blouse, which was unbuttoned low enough that he could see the top of a lacy bra, the cups overflowing, exposing creamy flesh. He couldn’t remember ever seeing an airline hostess with her blouse unbuttoned so far. Come to think of it, weren’t they supposed to wear some sort of scarf or something?

For a few seconds he gazed at what she was showing him. Who wouldn’t? He might be engaged, but he wasn’t dead. He caught a whiff of expensive perfume and his head swam. There was a time, quite recently, when he wouldn’t have hesitated to take her up on what she was offering and let the wild rumpus start.  
But right now all he could think about was getting on his way to California and into the arms of his fiancee.

“Just a ticket to California, thanks,” he said, meeting her eyes with a friendly smile.

She straightened immediately and smoothed her skirt. “Of course, sir,” she said, her smile professional now.

Paul returned to his coffee, somewhat distracted by the fawning air hostess. He thought about the last time he'd been in San Francisco, the Beatles final concert, only three months ago. The last time he'd heard that special brand of screaming that sounded like a thousand jet engines spooling up at once. The last time he'd actually feared for his life.

The entire tour had been a shit storm. There was that nightmare of a show in St. Louis, where it was raining and they had a couple bits of corrugated iron over them. It looked like a mud hut in the middle of somewhere and there were people miles away cheering. They did the show and piled into the back of a removal van, sliding around, trying to find something to hold on to. Paul had sworn a bit and said ‘I’ve fucking had it’ and the guys said ‘we’ve been telling you that for weeks mate.’ But they finally had his vote.

In San Francisco they couldn't hear a fucking thing but noise. For the closer, John did _Day Tripper_ while Paul was doing _Long Tall Sally_ , that’s how bad it was. They sprinted for the armored car for the airport, eager to get away.

Then there was that young Catholic priest at the airport who stopped Paul and asked him if he really thought he was bigger than Jesus.

‘No,’ Paul had said, ‘I don’t,’ not bothering to point out it was John who'd made the statement anyway. After chatting some more Paul had given the man all the money he had on him, a ten dollar bill. He wrote “love ya xx” on the bill. The priest gave him his blessing. His last question was whether Paul ever felt for the kids in the audience, or were they just a ticket.

“Of course I feel,” Paul had said. “I’m human.”

The Beatles then disappeared from America.

Now barely three months later, Paul was on his way back to San Francisco, with a wedding ring tucked safely in his pocket. He patted the box in his pocket to be sure.

Suddenly the door burst open and in came Mal, with brother Mike on his heels. “Look what I found.”

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Paul demanded.

“Train was late,” Mike said. “Are the planes taking off in this weather?”

“I just heard one.” Paul breathed a sigh of relief. The ring was safely in his pocket, the best man had arrived, and his wedding surprise to his bride should be pulling up any moment. “Any sign of the maid of honor?”

Mal looked at his watch. “Peter’s gone to fetch her. Shouldn't be long.”

“Right.” Paul couldn't wait to see the look on Marisol’s face when they showed up in California with his surprise guest. Their wedding may have been cobbled together at the last minute, but that didn't mean she shouldn't have her best friend standing beside her.

“Getting cold feet yet mate? Need an extra pair of socks?” Mike was grinning like an idiot.

Paul looked at the ceiling. How many people were going to ask him that today? Of all the crazy shit surrounding their relationship, the one thing he was sure of was the person he was marrying. “I dunno Mike, you’ve met my bride. Do you reckon I have cold feet?”

“I reckon not.” Mike rubbed his hands together gleefully. “But I do. It’s Baltic out there mate. Sunny California, here we come!”

*

[](https://imgur.com/oeVPumu)

*

Marisol looked beyond her reflection in the window at the rain that continued to fall. It had rained all morning in Sonoma, and the forecast called for more of the same.

All of the dainty white wooden chairs they had rented for the wedding had to be moved into the barn and dried with towels. She donned her sister’s yellow rain slicker, pulled up the hood, and went squelching through the grass to the barn.

“Here comes the bride, big fat and wide!” Marcus sang from the top of a ladder where he was perched under the center beam with a roll of ivory organza under one arm.

“Sod off wanker.”

“Oh nice. You can swear in British now. Classy.”

Marisol rattled his ladder, giving him a good scare. If he fell into the hay he likely wouldn’t break more than an arm or an ankle, and it would serve him right, harassing her on the eve of her wedding.

“Make yourself useful, Herman. Hang on to one end of this cloth.”

“Got it.” She gazed around the half decorated barn. “It looks pretty. I wish the sun would shine.”

“Are you sure about this, Herman? You’re running out of time to back out.”

“Why would I back out? Of course I’m sure.” She held tight to her end while Marcus somehow managed to slingshot the rest of the roll over the center beam. The organza had a shimmer to it, and if the sun would only shine, it would give the barn a twinkle effect.

Marcus climbed down the ladder and moved it forward another three feet. He loudly blew his nose on a handkerchief, folded it and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he climbed back up the ladder and directed her to hand him another bolt of fabric.

“I remember the first time I saw this guy. You were going on about some English band, and suddenly there they were on television. All the girls are screaming like idiots, and my little sister points to the skinny one on the end and says ‘I’m gonna marry that one because I like his big brown eyes.’ I said, ‘Whatever, Herman.’”

Marisol laughed and held up a new roll of organza. “I did not say that, you goofball.”

“Sure enough,” Marcus continued, “Next thing I know I look around and the skinny one on the end is at our house, driving Dad’s T-bird and drinking our whiskey.”

“You’re such an idiot.” Marisol chuckled at the memory of Paul’s first visit and how nervous she’d been.

“And the next thing I know, I have another niece, a mini version of the skinny one with the big brown eyes.” Marcus stopped what he was doing and looked down at her. His free hand went up to brush a flop of dark blonde hair out of his eye.

“What are you getting at, Marky Marc?”

Marcus sniffed and dragged his nose across the sleeve of his red and black flannel shirt. He suffered from hay allergies, and Marisol knew it was an act of love for him to sniff his way through decorating the barn for her wedding. “I’m just sayin’, you really love this guy? You know what you’re getting into? You don’t feel trapped or nothin’ like that…?”

“No, Marcus, I don’t feel trapped. I really—“

Out of nowhere a shotgun blast rang out, echoing through the barn and the hills beyond. Over their heads a flock of black winged creatures took flight, circling and wheeling and zipping as one out the open door of the barn.

Marcus swore and teetered unsteadily. Marisol screamed and ducked to avoid the roll of fabric falling towards her head.

“Come on, old man!” Marcus bellowed. “Give it a rest!”

“Daddy!” Marisol fought her way out from under the organza and stomped outside just as her father came around the side of the barn in an ancient red plaid wool jacket with his rifle over one shoulder. His shock of gray hair was Einstein wild beneath a yellow tweed deerstalker cap. “Daddy, what are you shooting at now?”

“I'm not shooting _at_ anything, Daughter. I'm relocating the bats.”

“I thought you liked the bats. I thought they eat the insects.”

“I do like the bats, but your mother doesn't like them in the barn. This goddamn wedding.”

Together they watched the wheeling creatures land in the top of a tree halfway between the house and the winery.

“That should get your mother off my back about the bats.” He sniffed, satisfied.

Marisol sighed. “Thank you, for everything. I'm sorry I came home and created a furor.”

“Ah well, not your fault. Weddings are always a bit of a furor.”

Marisol pulled the yellow hood over her head against the drizzle and smiled up at her father. “Nice hat.”

Her father nodded. He pulled a toothpick out of his front pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “Your mother’s idea. You don’t think it makes me look too much like Sherlock Holmes do you?”

“A bit,” Marisol said, “but everyone likes Sherlock Holmes.”

“Going up to the house?” her father asked, holding out his arm. “I’ve been meaning to have a little father daughter chat.”

Marisol linked her arm with his. She tried to be inconspicuous as she leaned in and sniffed the air next to her father. It didn’t smell like he’d been into the gin yet. He usually wanted to chat only after he’d been into the gin. “What’s up?”

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” he began.

“Yes it is.”

“I’ll tell you something, Daughter. Unhappy marriages happen because of a lack of friendship. Are you best friends? Because there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your best friend.”

Marisol patted his arm, smiling to herself. Were they best friends? She wasn’t sure, but she knew there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Paul. And she believed he felt the same way. “Yes, Daddy, we’re best friends.”

“You can’t change people, you know. You have to accept them as who they are. Are both of you good with that?”

“Yes...are you worried about us? About Paul?” Marisol looked up at him, a little anxious about the answer.

The toothpick worked its way from one side of his mouth to the other. Her father seemed to be considering his words.

“I’ll tell you what impressed me about him when I first met him. Two things. His self confidence that said ‘I am totally comfortable in my own skin’ and the way he looked at my daughter. But you were both young, and you needed some seasoning. Marry too young and you take each other for granted.”

Marisol nodded. It had indeed been a rocky road getting to this place in both of their lives. She made a humming sound, encouraging her father to continue.

“He asked me for my blessing, before he proposed.”

Marisol looked up sharply. “Did he? I didn’t know that.”

“I told him the right man to marry my youngest daughter had not been born yet and probably never would be, but that he was as close to that man as I had yet seen. Then I told him how special you and Melody are to us, and that it would be up to him to keep the two of you safe.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh Daddy,” she said, squeezing his arm.

They stopped walking, and her father turned to her with a somber look on his face.

“It’s not easy to watch a daughter outgrow the nest you kept her safe in, spread her wings and fly away with another.”

She brushed away a tear. “I’ll always have my roots here. This is where I had all my first heartbreaks and then laughed because you made me laugh.”

She stood on tiptoes to kiss his tanned cheek. “Daddy, you’ll always be the first man I ever loved.”

“I know, Daughter.”

Marisol smiled up at him through a sheen of tears. “Now could you please put the gun away until the wedding is over?”


	20. Chapter 20

[ ](https://imgur.com/KgcZs2P)

By the time Marisol drove across the legendary orange bridge from Marin County onto the San Francisco peninsula, the rain had been replaced by a beautiful rolling fog settling over the white city on the bay. She veered onto the coast highway, away from the city, the ocean on the right looming vast and black like the edge of the world.

“You do realize when you choose a life partner, you’re choosing a lot of things,” Donna said, turning down the Beach Boys latest radio hit so Marisol could hear more crucial tidbits of bridesmaid wisdom.

“Right…like someone who will deeply influence my children.”

“Well, that. And you’re choosing your eating companion for 20,000 meals.”

“Hmmm. Food for thought.”

Marisol flashed the high beams on, then off again. High or low beams in fog? You’d think she’d remember by now, always managing to live in the foggiest of places on the planet.

“20,000 meals,” Donna repeated, tutting.

Barely listening, Marisol made a noncommittal sound. On her last day as a single woman, she’d been up since dawn making last minute wedding arrangements and delegating tasks. Last minute phone calls to the caterer, the local florist, and a team of movers charged with relocating the Steinway grand piano from the conservatory to the barn. The horses were moved into a nearby pasture, the winery was fitted with chairs and tables and a makeshift dance floor, and in the main house the guest rooms were made up for relatives coming in for the wedding. Uncles, aunts, a few cousins, and most importantly, Grandma Hadley had flown in from Florida.

“And someone whose day you’ll hear about 18,000 times,” Donna continued. “So you need to be sure.”

Marisol hummed a response. All day she’d thought constantly of Paul, buzzing at the idea that he was at that moment winging his way to her. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to see him. Her whole body tingled at the knowledge that he was even now waiting for her at their favorite love nest on the coast, only seconds away.

She turned left, leaving the ocean, and the sky blue art deco building came into view. An orange neon sign with the words OCEAN VIEW MOTEL cast a hazy glow over the windshield as she pulled into the parking lot, gravel and seashells crunching loudly beneath the tires.

Built in the same year as the Golden Gate bridge, with all the retro charm of the 1930’s, the motel had a unique deco/nautical decor, with porthole windows, cruise-ship railings and ship steering wheels on the doors. This quiet little motel had captured their hearts when they stayed together here on Paul’s first visit. Sentimental fool that he was, Paul had booked this same little gem of a room for their wedding night. Room 16. Second floor at the back, away from the street noise but with a porthole window that opened onto ocean breezes. On that night nearly three years ago, they’d fallen asleep to the deep pitch of a fog horn, sounding through the foggy night to keep ships from crashing into the bridge as they steered from the bay into the ocean beyond.

Marisol’s hands shook as she pulled into a parking space and killed the engine. She couldn’t seem to get to Paul fast enough. What was it Grandma Hadley had said today, when Uncle Patrick had commented on how Marisol was running around like a blue-arsed fly?

_“When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”_

“The same penis forever. Six times, maybe more.” Donna muttered under her breath. “Depending on how many kids you want.”

“Shut it! You’re killing me.” But Marisol couldn’t help giggling as she pocketed the car keys. “The room is back this way, just through the garden. You’ll get to meet Paul’s brother, and probably big Mal.”

“The things I do for you,” Donna said.

They walked down a little path through the immaculately kept Japanese-style garden, under the ancient cypress tree, past the tiny bench where Marisol and Paul had once sat huddled together with a bottle of wine, promising each other they would always love this way, against all odds.

And there he was. Paul was standing on the second floor landing, outside the room they’d once shared, his hair ruffling in the wind. Dressed in stripped white and tan trousers and a contrasting dark striped jacket over a red T-shirt, his feet in black Converse, he looked like Swinging London on holiday. He was looking right at her, his smile as intimate as a kiss.

“Hello, Miss Hemingway. What brings you out on this fine evening?”

Marisol grinned up at him, her heart beating a rapid pace. “My gorgeous fiancé.”

Paul looked around in mock surprise. “Is he here too?”

“Yes. He’s short and burly and never has much to say. He’s exactly my type.”

He held onto the railing, grinning down at her. She ran up the steps and threw herself at him, and suddenly they were kissing, kissing hard and fast, her hands pulling him closer, her brain buzzing like a neon sign: it's him, it's him, it's Paul.

There was a little coughing sound from the sidewalk and she remembered Donna was there and pulled away, and the door behind Paul opened and Marisol blinked because it didn’t make sense, and then she gave a little scream of delight.

“Oh my god! You…you…” she sputtered, and Paul was grinning wider because he’d pulled it off, this massive surprise.

“You didn’t think I’d miss your wedding did you?” Angela said, stepping around Paul and grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Then Marisol was laughing through the tears in her eyes, and she launched herself at her friend, hugging her madly, then pulling her down the stairs where Donna waited to be introduced. Her best American friend and her best English friend, somehow both here to see her married, and Marisol thought she had never been happier than in this moment.

 

They headed for the ocean first, Marisol arm and arm with her girlfriends and the men trailing behind. Dashing across the Ocean Highway, they gravitated to a fire ring where a group of surfer types tended a roaring bonfire. At the edge of the firelight, Paul picked up a piece of driftwood and carved "PM + MH" into the sand.   
"You are so smitten," Angela said, giving him a little shove.  
"Maybe I am," Paul said, peering through the flames at Marisol, who stumbled across the sand to admire his work and clasp his cold hand and grin up at him.  
“Arr ey. Give us a break, wha?" Mike said.  
Donna giggled.

 

One block up and one across, they ducked out of the cold ocean winds and into the warm glow of the Irish Hall restaurant foyer.

“Evening! Welcome back,” said a ginger haired, pretty hostess with an Irish lilt.

“Arr aye, yer ‘avin’ me.” Mike looked around. “Never been ‘ere in me life.”

“Come on in then, the whiskey’s fine,” the hostess said, opening the etched glass doors to the muted sounds of laughter and song.

“Give us a drink o’ that then, I’m gaggin’,” Mike said, on the heels of the pretty hostess.

“I don’t understand a single word that boy says,” Donna whispered to Marisol.

Marisol patted her arm. “If he says anything important I’ll let you know.”

“He’s kinda cute, if you like cute boys who sound like pirates,” Donna mused.

The hostess led them through the traditionally styled pub with wooden paneling and high ceilings to a candlelit booth close to the warmth of an open fireplace.

As soon as they were seated Donna turned her attention to Mike. “Do you like American girls?”

“Course I like American gells. Yer so confident an’ all obsessed wit’ our accents. Wha’s not t’ like?”

“No we’re not,” Donna said. “Now say something else.”

Mike picked up a menu. “Fancy a bevvy like?”

“He’s offering to buy you a drink,” Marisol translated.

“Ohhhh,” Donna said, resting her chin on her palm and batting her eyes at Mike.

Angela was twirling her hair and laughing at something Mal said. Then she laughed at something Mike said.

“This is going well,” Marisol said, scooting closer to her handsome fiancé.

“Hello my beautiful bride to be,” Paul said softly. “How was your day?”

“It was wonderful,” Marisol began. “Except…”

“Except what, love?”

“Except I’m planning a wedding and there’s mud everywhere and the caterer stopped answering her phone and who knows if my dress actually fits and the flowers may or may not be ready in time for—”

“Sssh. Let’s not worry about that right now,” he murmured near her ear, his hot breath making shivers skate down her back as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, his fingers dangling just above her breast. “Let’s just enjoy the music and the night.”

So Marisol snuggled against him and began to do just that.

 

They were on their second round of drinks with food on the way, laughing and swapping stories, when a boy of about fifteen wearing dark shades stopped at their table. An older woman stood slightly behind him.

“Excuse me, are you Paul McCartney?” the boy asked in Paul’s direction.

“Guilty as charged,” Paul said, extending his hand.

“I told my mom it was you,” the boy said, grinning widely but making no move to shake Paul’s hand.

The older woman reached around and took Paul’s hand with an apologetic smile. “So sorry to disturb you. He was sure he recognized your voice and he wouldn’t let it go until he knew for sure.”

“You’re the reason I’m a musician,” the boy said, swaying a little with his exuberance. “I remember when you came to America the first time. I was a student at the School for the Blind and we had the Ed Sullivan show on in the TV room and the minute you started to play I stood up and yelled, ‘I love the Beatles!’”

“That’s great, mate,” Paul said, laughing. He reached out and took the boy’s hand in both of his. “Nice to see you. You said you’re a musician? What do you play?”

The kid smiled from ear to ear. “I play trumpet in the school orchestra. All because of the Beatles.”

“Well that’s grand.”

“So nice to have met you,” his mother said, leading the boy away.

“Ta. Have a good evening.”

“Oi, you wanker!” Mike said, as soon as the teen was out of earshot. “You said ‘nice to see you’ to a blind kid!”

“Wha? No I didn’t, you fool.”

“You did! You thorough twonk! I was waitin’ for you to ask if he’d ever seen you in concert.”

“Shuddup! Stop talkin’ outta yer arse!”

“I don’t think he noticed,” Marisol said.

Donna was watching the interplay between the brothers with a slight smile on her face. “That was actually a really sweet story.” Her eyes settled on Paul. “Does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

“What sort of thing?”

“People saying you changed their lives.”

“Nah. Not really.” Paul looked at Marisol and winked.

Mal glanced up from his pint. “Yeh it does happen, rather a lot.”

“Oi, if that kid comes back,” Mike said, “I’ve always wanted to ask a blind person this. When yer go to the loo, how do yer know when to stop, y’know, wipin’.”

“You are an idiot,” Angela said to Mike, but he probably couldn’t hear her over the sound of Donna’s laughter.

The food arrived, hearty and Irish, and a group of musicians beside the dance floor huddled together and played furiously against a backdrop of merriment and banter.

Fortified with food and spirits, the wedding party took to the dance floor, everyone but Mal and Angela, who couldn’t be convinced. On the sticky dance floor they made a small circle, Paul and Mike joining hands behind the girls’ backs, and spun to the left fast enough that the girls’ feet flew off the floor.

“Kiss me I’m Irish!” Donna whooped when the dance ended.

“You’re so not,” Marisol shouted back at her.

“I’m Donna O’Greenberg!”

“Sounds Irish to me! Come ‘ead, lass, let’s have some craic!” Mike said, dancing Donna away to a private corner of the dance floor.

Paul opened his arms, inviting Marisol for a slow dance, even though all around them other couples were stomping and clapping to the beat of an Irish jig.

Her palm slipped against his, her other hand hand looped around the nape of his neck, and all of him came toward her, this male person, her person, leading her to the beat of a song that only he could hear. The two of them were a ship on the dance floor; he was the captain and she was his precious cargo. She was close enough to observe the dark, dark hair that teased the collar of his jacket, the tiny spot along his jawline that he missed while shaving, the texture of his skin. The base of his throat, his Adam’s apple and pulse of his breath. The rapid telltale tattoo of his heart at the very nearness of her.

An unbreathed sigh settled into her and she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. The room fell away. She breathed in gently, subtly inhaling the tobacco and laundry and cologne scent of him. The scent of a man she could make love to for the rest of her life.

The dance began, and the question was simply, could he lead her? Could she trust this male human being to take her on a life adventure and bring her safely back? He tightened his arm around her back and drew her ever closer, and she felt herself starting to relax. Worry melted into the night vapors. She was in safe hands. She felt safely seduced, for one, two, three dances…for the rest of her life.

The music was too loud for conversation, but after only a matter of seconds, Paul couldn’t seem to help himself. He was a talker.

“How are ya?”

“Mmm.” A small nod against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about the way this all went down, love. I’d no idea the press were onto your name. Mike thinks it had something to do with the Kellys. I plan to have a word with them when we get back home.”

When we get back home, Marisol repeated to herself.

“It’s okay,” she whispered against his neck.

“The arl fella was sorry he couldn’t make it. His arthritis, you know. We’ll have a reception in Liverpool, I’ll show you off to a few hundred of my closest cousins.”

Marisol hummed against his neck. “I’d like that.”

“Are you all right, love? How is the baby? How was she on the flight over?”

“A-okay,” Marisol said, wishing he would stop talking and just hold her. He’d find out how the baby was on an airplane when he had to help wrangle her for twelve hours on the way back. On their way home.

“I missed you,” he murmured into her ear.

She lifted her head from his shoulder, smiling into his concerned face. “I missed you too.”

Then they were kissing, her hand tangling in his hair, his hand moving from her waist down to her hips, pulling her tighter against him. She no longer knew where her perfume and his scent started and stopped; the line of his body was only the borderlines of her own. Her senses were aware of nothing but the two of them, his kisses so drugging that it surprised her they were legal. Then there was a whistle close to her ear and Mike’s annoying voice saying something about “a family restaurant” and “maybe it’s time to hit the road.”

“I think we’re making a good decision, don’t you?” Paul was saying, smiling down at her, and Marisol could do nothing but nod back at him with a loopy smile. She felt dazed and slightly drunk and very, very happy.

“They’re getting married tomorrow,” Donna announced loudly, to no one in particular, because the rest of the patrons seemed more intoxicated than any of them and hardly cared who was kissing whom provocatively on the dance floor.

Tipsy and happy, hands clasped with the man she loved on the night before her wedding, Marisol had to stop herself from skipping back to the motel. They were a happy little band of revelers, jogging through the foggy night and crooning snippets of Irish folk songs. Even Angela danced a little jig around a street lamp.

“We’ve rented two rooms,” Paul said, dropping his arm from around Marisol’s shoulder to fumble with the key. At the top of the stairs Marisol realized the others had fallen back, presumably to give them some privacy. She could hear Mike’s drunken singing from the general direction of the hot tub. “So you and I can be alone in our old room,” Paul continued.

“Wait…” Marisol stepped back, shaking her head. “We can’t stay together tonight. The groom can’t see the bride on the wedding day, it’s all sorts of bad juju.”

Paul must not have heard her, since his lips were pressed to her neck, his hand against her spine, coaxing her across the threshold. “You remember this room baby?” He lifted his head, smiling into her eyes. “Remember how I bent you over that bed? And the dresser? And that chair in the corner? And out here on the balcony with your arms over your head?”

“What? That never—“

His lips were on hers, coaxing, biting, and he was sucking on her lower lip in that way that made her turn to jelly, and he was edging her into the room, his hands moving down her shoulders to cup her breasts.

“Paul!” Her voice came out too loud. She flattened her palms against his chest, pushing away and causing them both to stumble.

“What?” Paul jumped a little, quickly scanning around the room. “Christ, you scared the shit out of me! Bloody hell, I thought you saw someone in the room or somethin’.”

“We can’t spend the night together. It’s the rule.”

With a determined look on his face, he yanked her into the room and kicked the door closed. She gave a little yelp as he pushed her back against the door and pressed his body along hers.

“I thought I knew what marriage meant, but it sounds like you’re telling me after not having sex for three nights that you want to wait yet another night. As if marriage means less sex.”

“Sweetheart. We’re going to have tons of sex. You really want to break all the rules and see me the morning of our wedding?”

“Hell yes. Because sex.”

“It’s very bad luck.”

“Sex? Since when?”

“Seeing the bride on the wedding day before the wedding. Bad, bad luck.”

“That’s soft.” He leaned down and nibbled her neck. “Are you saying I don’t get to fuck you again until we’re married?”

Marisol was a little buzzed about hearing him say 'fuck you again', and it took a few seconds for the other part to sink in. Married. In twelve hours.

“Paul. I have to go.” He lifted his head, gauging if she was as serious as she sounded. “I haven’t even tried on my dress," she added.

He stepped back, regarding her with a bemused smile. “I can’t wait to see you walk down the aisle.” He tilted his head. “Will there be an aisle?”

“Yes. I’ll see you at the end of it. In twelve hours.”

“Shit.” He laughed and shook his head, as if not quite believing it himself. “Are you ready to be my full time lady?”

“Not remotely,” she said, bringing her lips to his. She ran a finger down his chest, stopping at the waistband of his trousers. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He watched from the balcony as she skipped down the steps, off to find her crew of bridesmaids and drive them across the bridge to her parents’ home.

“Thank you for bringing Angela,” she called over her shoulder.

“Drive safe,” he called back.

She turned around at the bottom of the steps. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he said, and he blew her a kiss.

She continued down the path, turning around twice more to smile and wave and catch the kisses Paul kept blowing her way.

“Tomorrow night. Over the balcony with your arms in the air,” he said, too loudly.

“Ssshhh!”

“Goodnight Ms. Hemingway soon to be McCartney,” she heard him call as she took the path between the buildings, disappearing from his sight. “See you tomorrow. Don’t be late!”

Tomorrow, she whispered, hugging herself against the chill. Angela and Donna were walking toward her, giggling about something. It felt like she was living one of the fairytales she’d read as a little girl, with everyone she loved here to celebrate with her and the love of her life. Even the ones who couldn’t be here with her—Papa Hemingway, Grandpa and Grandma Bellamy—surely they were watching over her and smiling, as she prepared to embark on her greatest life adventure yet.

 


	21. Chapter 21

 

 

_The tapping of the rain and a car splashing by and a lone ship’s horn. A church bell chimes and music swells and Paul is there, smiling only for her. “Are you ready to be my full time lady?” he says. He nibbles a path from her shoulder to her ear. Marisol wants to ask him if he thought the wedding went well, but her thoughts are disorganized by his hands. They leave a trail of fire as they slide beneath the spaghetti straps of her gown and move down to cup her breasts._

_Her lace gown pools at her feet and they’re bare skin to bare skin and Paul is running his hands through her wet hair and she holds tightly to his wrist, because they’re racing together through a corridor where ivory dresses hang from the ceiling. The dresses turn into flower petals that sprinkle down relentlessly until it feels like they’re drowning in them. A flash of light, then another, and suddenly they’re surrounded by men in suits shoving cameras in their faces and shouting their names and they can’t move for all the flowers, they’re paralyzed, they can’t do anything but hold onto each other and stare at each other, their eyes wide and wild…_

 

Marisol’s eyes flew open, her gasp reverberating in her ears. She was certain she’d screamed out loud, but Angela was breathing softly beside her in untroubled slumber. She turned her head on the pillow, waiting for her heart rate to slow. In the dim light she focused on the heap of white lace and silk draped across the chair next to the bed. _Her wedding day._

She lay for a moment listening to every sound outside her window. A whistle from a distant freight train, a lone songbird’s sweet, insistent call. A horse whinnying in the pasture. It sounded like Jet. She pictured him raising his head, looking around for other horses or people. _Is anyone else here?_ An answering nicker from Calamity. _I am here. You are not alone._

A shaft of sunlight slanted across the bed through a gap in the curtains. Marisol said a silent prayer that the sun god Ra would continue to shine upon her wedding. She swung her feet onto the floor and stretched her cramped limbs, surprised that she’d slept as well as she had considering the monumental day ahead. Silent as the night, she dressed in jeans and a soft pink sweater and a pair of espadrilles.

While she waited for the kettle to boil, she could hear the household coming awake. Water running, a door opening and closing. Her mother would be up soon, and the housekeeper Bianca would be making breakfast for hungry wedding guests. Marisol opened the kitchen door to check the weather.

A couple of vague clouds drifted over the distant hills, but otherwise the sky was clear, with no threat of rain. Drops of dew glistened in the clear morning sun. The air was cool, but not uncomfortable. All in all, it looked like it would shape up to be a perfect day for a wedding. With relief, she breathed in the morning air, redolent with horse manure and hay and flowering vines and damp earth. The smells of home.

Something else caught her attention: the unmistakable dynamic fugue-like melody of Bach’s _Brandenburg Concerto_ wafting across the dormant tangles of grape vines.

With two cups of fragrant, steaming Earl Grey, Marisol squelched her way through the damp grass.

This would be the first of many unforgettable moments of her wedding day, seeing her red-haired grandmother sitting straight-backed on the piano bench in the corner of the barn, her fingers flying over the keys.

Grandma Hadley startled when she saw her, then smiled and reached for the mug of tea Marisol held out.

“Thank you, dear. My fingers are quite frozen.” She wrapped her fingers around the mug and blew across the steam. “Come sit beside me. We haven’t had a proper talk in ages.”

“Was that one of the songs for the wedding?” Marisol settled beside her on the bench, trying to emulate her grandmother’s perfect posture. The mark of a professional performer.

“Oh, no, not that one. I’m just limbering up these old hands of mine.”

“Dad always said you should have been a concert pianist.”

Grandma smiled, her laugh lines crinkling. “Oh, I never had the temperament for a concert career. I gave all that up in favor of health and balance.” She took a sip and set her tea carefully on top of a stack of sheet music. Her hands curled into fists. Then she flexed her fingers and began another tune. “I play at church on Sundays, though. I’ve had a full enough life.”

It was true, Marisol knew. Her grandmother had lived a remarkable life. Based in Paris for three years, exploring Europe with her young and dashing husband. Bullfights in Spain, skiing in Switzerland, hiking the Alps into Italy. Standing beside her husband as he become famous, followed by the heartache of losing him to someone she thought was her friend.

Marisol set her mug of tea on the ground, closed her eyes and listened to her grandmother’s accomplished hands. It was exactly the sort of music you would like to waft you down the River Thames on a glorious English morning in Spring. It sounded like new beginnings and second chances and happiness.

Like Marisol, Grandma Hadley’s heart had quickly healed when she met the second love of her life. She’d fallen in love with a newspaperman, a poet. She’d burned a massive stack of love letters from Ernest Hemingway, moved home to the States with her new husband and child and never looked back.

Papa, on the other hand, never stopped voicing his regrets of leaving his first wife and child. After he died, his fourth wife sent Hadley a box full of her love letters. Through four marriages, he'd kept every letter Hadley had written to him during their courtship. He’d described his marriage to Marisol’s grandmother, as they struggled to make ends meet in Paris, as the happiest time in his life. In his final book, his remorse for leaving her could be felt on every page: “When I saw Hadley again, I wished I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.”

“I was thinking _Handel’s Water Music_ while the guests are arriving,” Grandma Hadley said, interrupting Marisol’s daydreaming. She continued playing and Marisol opened her eyes, smiled and nodded her approval.

“Beautiful.”

“You mentioned _Canon in D_ for the processional.”

“Yes. I love that.”

“And when you walk down the aisle at the end of the ceremony, hand in hand with your new husband?”

“I don’t know… _Trumpet Voluntary_?” Marisol suggested, trying to remember the songs played in Margo’s wedding.

“Possibly. I was thinking something joyful, like _Rondeau_?”

Marisol sighed as her grandmother’s rendition of the dramatic baroque masterpiece filled the space. “Perfect.”

“Très bien! C'est la musique réal.” Grandma looked thoughtfully at Marisol. “You’re positively glowing, darling. I can’t wait to meet the young man who makes you this happy.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet him.” She grinned just imagining Paul charming her other grandmother the way he’d instantaneously charmed Grandma Bellamy.

Grandma Hadley took her hands off the keyboard and patted her granddaughter’s knee. “Tell me more about him. Tell me what you haven’t said in your letters. When did you first know you loved him?”

Marisol bounced lightly on the bench, finding it almost impossible to keep still today. When had she first fallen in love with Paul?

Was it when she first saw him playing his heart out in front of an audience, joy and confidence, poise and talent emanating from him in waves?

Was it that time he had rushed to see her even though he was exhausted from touring, and he’d taken ill, and he’d slouched on the sofa, his hair standing in every direction, unshaven, one hand inside the waistband of his boxers, zoned out on the television, and she’d had this epiphany that he wasn’t a beautiful, unattainable celebrity but just a _guy_ , and he was becoming _her_ guy?

Was it the time she had fallen ill herself and taken to bed, waking up to see his concerned face hovering over her, and he’d crawled into bed and cuddled her, oblivious to the fact that she might make him sick too?

Or was it when she watched his first reaction to their baby daughter, his biceps straining with the weight of this person they had created together, his eyes exploring her tiny face—Marisol could practically see his heart expand, and she knew with sudden clarity that from that moment on they were in this together, and Paul would do anything to protect their child.

So many moments of falling in love with Paul. How to pick just one?

“I think it was the moment I first saw him with Melody. I realized that he was the one other person in the world who would always feel the same way about her that I do.” She smiled softly. “But I fall in love with him all the time.”

“Perfect answer.” Beside her, Grandma Hadley nodded. “I remember the night I met your grandfather. It was like an explosion into life. He was so vivid and glamorous, the kind of person who appeared in such sharp focus that everyone around him seemed muted. He was twenty-one and wanted to be a writer. He hadn't published more than a few newspaper articles, but he was convinced he had great talent, and so were all his friends. He was the leader of this joyous gang who teased each other crazily.”

“Tell me more,” Marisol said dreamily. There was little she loved more than listening to her grandmother reminisce about falling in love with her Papa.

Grandma’s light blue eyes twinkled. “Well. All through the party, this remarkable man kept staring at me and trying to talk to me. I was flattered by all the attention, but mystified. He seemed to be adore me, and I hadn't, in all the excitement, done anything to be adored. I thought, well now, he wants me for my red hair, but just wait til he finds out I play classical music and read nothing but French realism.” She made a humming sound as she reminisced. “He was trouble. Chaos really, But his smile dared me to fall in love with him.”

“Atticus Finch?” Marisol easily recognized the quote from one of her favorite American novels.

“Very good, dear.”

Marisol pulled a lock of hair over her shoulder, winding it around her finger. “It's like you're describing Paul. That’s just how I felt when we met. Wondering why he'd chosen me. And fearing I was in way over my head.”

“Come on now. I read the papers. I've been following this young man’s career since I found out you were seeing him. With all the horse shit surrounding the Beatles, I can see why he'd cling to you and never let go. You're loving and nurturing and level headed.” Grandma Hadley tapped her finger against Marisol’s knee, driving the point home. “He needs you more than you know. You’re an anchor for him.”

“Like you were for Papa.” Marisol sometimes wondered if Papa’s guilt over leaving Hadley might have been the start of his alcoholism and downfall. His drinking increased, and he suffered from a variety of ailments that plagued him all his life. People said he changed without mild-tempered, down-to-earth Hadley in his life.

“You’re so much more worldly than I was at your age,” Grandma mused. “I’d spent eight years obsessing over the piano and taking care of my sick mother. I knew I was missing something, and when your Papa charged into my life I decided he was the one I felt starved for. We fell cockeyed in love. But you know what? My son, my grandchildren…I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“That’s all you can ask out of life I guess,” Marisol murmured. She placed her hands on the keyboard and began the bass line of “Heart and Soul.” After a couple of measures, Grandma Hadley joined in with the melody line.

 _Heart and soul_  
_I fell in love with you heart and soul_  
_the way a fool would do madly_  
_because you held me tight_

“And how about you? Are you still writing?” her grandmother asked, as they continued their duet, adding flourishes and trills.

Marisol shrugged and forced a little laugh. Everyone asked her that question. No wonder she was getting defensive about it. “It’s hard finding time for all that right now.”

“Honey. I know what it's like to be married to a very ambitious man.”

“I know you do.”

Grandma Hadley stopped playing and gave Marisol her full attention.

“I've never known anyone so desperate to succeed or so devoted to his art as your grandfather when I met him in his early 20s. He needed and craved my support so that he could continue to be obsessed with his dream. But you have dreams too. Don’t get so caught up in taking care of everyone else that you neglect what you want to do. That’s what keeps marriage exciting, both of you pursuing your dreams, hand in hand.”

“I’ll remember that,” Marisol said, nodding, repeating the highlights silently to herself. She knew she would commit this entire conversation with Grandma Hadley to memory and journal about it later, along with every other part of her wedding day.

A shadow fell across the piano and they turned to see Marisol’s mother standing in the doorway to the barn, posture rigid, hands on her hips.

“Hello Mother, how are you?” said Marisol.

“Far from well, Marisol. Far from well. To start with, the groom has arrived.”

“What?” Marisol shoved up her sleeve and checked her watch. Barely seven in the morning. The wedding was at noon.

Mrs. Hemingway sighed dramatically, lifting one hand to smooth her already perfect hair. “He insisted on waking up your daughter. I’m sure you know how hardheaded that man can be. Now we’ll have to keep the two of you separated for the next five hours. He’s arrived hungry, with that motley crew of his from Liverpool. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate. Stay out of the kitchen.”

With another beleaguered sigh, Mrs. Hemingway turned on her heels back toward the house.

“Your mother scares me out of my eyeteeth,” Grandma Hadley said.

Marisol exchanged an amused look with her grandmother. “She’s all bark and no bite. I’ll tell you a secret. I think she loves all the drama.”

“Well spotted.”

Marisol giggled and kissed her grandmother’s soft, pale cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here, Grandma.”

“So am I, dear.”

“I guess I should—”

“Yes, yes. Go get ready for your happy day. We’ll talk more later.”

“Are you warm enough out here? Do you really need to practice? It all sounds perfect.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine. Music is how I relax.”

Marisol kissed her grandmother again before dashing through the dewy grass, beside the barn toward the winery, carefully avoiding the kitchen side of the house. Mustn’t let Paul see her. They needed all the good luck they could get.

There was a nickering from the front pasture and Marisol took a little detour to greet Jet, her chestnut Quarter Horse. He trotted up to the fence, dipped his graying head and snuffled at her pockets, hoping for an apple or a carrot. After enduring years of little feet drumming at his sides, Jet had an air of world weary patience.

Marisol rubbed his neck, her breath snagging at the sudden lump in her throat. Her horses were growing too old to be shipped across the ocean, to have to be acclimated to a whole new environment. It wasn’t an easy decision. She loved this horse, knew his quirks and his temperament. It was painful, but better to let her aging horses live out their days here in California, without her.

“Sorry boy, I’ll bring you something later. You’re a good boy. I’ll miss you terribly.”

Jet shoved his nose against her shoulder, leaving a slimy trail of green on her sweater. She gave him a pat on his side and clicked her tongue. “Go play with the others.”

A truck door slammed and she lifted her head. The winery was already a beehive of activity. She caught sight of her sister Margo and their cousin Judith, standing at the back of a delivery van.

Before she reached them, Angela met her coming down the path from the house, yawning and blinking in the morning sun and holding a bouquet of yellow roses.

“Paul’s here. He woke everyone up. He brought you these.”

“I heard.” Marisol took the bouquet of flowers and breathed in their scent.

“Hey Ange,” Margo unzipped a garment bag and held up a pale blue satin dress. “Um…when you said size 8, was that a UK size 8 or a US size 8?”

“I said size 6!”

Margo tutted, then replaced the dress. “We’ll make it work.” She turned to their cousin. “Jude. Add safety pins to the list.”

Judith clicked open her ball point pen and looked at the pad of paper in her other hand. “Safety pins, heartburn tablets, phonograph needle, duct tape, Kleenex, 4 rolls of super absorbent kitchen paper towels, 24 pack of double rolls of toilet paper. And WD-40. Got it.”

Marisol waved a hand. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Does anyone smell rain?” Judith asked.

“No,” Marisol and Margo both said at the same time.

 

Marcus was on the phone in the front office of the winery, looking agitated. Everyone was out of sorts this morning, what with the house guests and three days of nonstop wedding preparations. Once the ceremony was over, music would play and wine would flow and tempers would be soothed.

The back offices of the winery had been set up as Marisol’s ad hoc dressing room. There was a bathroom with a full vanity mirror, a sofa, a little bar area, and bottles of wine everywhere, naturally.

Angela turned on the radio, tuning through the stations. “I can’t get over how many radio stations you have.” 

Through the static, she dialed in "Winchester Cathedral," which brought a smile to both of their faces.

"It's like I'm at home," Angela mused, "but with more choices and better weather." She began wandering around the winery, checking out the bathroom, the closets, the basket of fresh fruit, the racks of wine.

There was a tiny card nestled inside the roses. Marisol unfolded it and scanned Paul’s careful writing, a smile curving her lips.

A door slammed, and Marcus bellowed, “Herman!”

“In here,” Marisol called, tucking the card back inside the roses.

Marcus was unshaven and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them.

“Hey,” he said. “How ya doin’.”

“Great. What’s up?”

“Look. I don’t want you to be worried about the priest,” Marcus said, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“What? Why would I be worried about the…Marcus, you said you had the priest sorted.”

“Yeah, exactly, that’s what I’m saying. We have the license and everything. Just have to sign it, the both of you, and Father Gomez…we’re on it.”

 _The priest._ It was one of the few things Marisol _hadn’t_ worried about, because Bianca, the housekeeper, had volunteered that José, one of the groundskeepers, had a brother who was a priest who would happily marry them here at the vineyard so they wouldn’t have to chance the press finding out about a public wedding.

“Marcus? What are you not telling me?”

Marcus winced. “Herman. Don’t overreact. There was a bit of a run in last night, what with the local sheriff cracking down on drinking and driving. It’s only a matter of posting bail. He’ll be here. He needs the money. Gambling debts. So. I’d better run.”

“Oh for the love of god.” Marisol lowered her face to the flowers. _Breathe._ Breathe in the roses, breathe out thoughts of the priest, who was supposed to marry her in five hours, currently sleeping it off in a jail cell.

How early was too early to begin drinking on your wedding day, when you were about to be married to a member of the most famous singing group in the world, if the two of you could pull it off?

Marisol flopped onto the sofa with the roses in her lap and opened the card from Paul.

 

_I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life having sleepovers with you_

_I can’t wait for you to steal my last name_

_I can’t wait to make more tiny humans with you that will make it harder for us to sleep and do the other night things we love to do but will fill us with pure joy_

_I can’t wait to see you at the end of the aisle_

_I can’t wait to say “I do” and kiss your face in a room filled with our favorite people_

_I can’t wait to be your husband_

_Happy wedding day, my beautiful bride_

_xxxx Paul_

 

“Everything good?” Angela said, coming out of the bathroom. “How is the bride?”

How was she? She was getting married in less than five hours. The priest was in jail, the bridesmaids dresses weren’t ready, nobody had heard from the caterer, and news reporters could be raining down on the parade at any moment.

“Honestly?” Marisol said, fanning herself with the card, a loopy smile on her face as she considered what it would feel like to walk down the aisle toward Paul. “I think I just might be the happiest girl in the world.”


	22. Chapter 22

_**A Lovely Love Story by Edward Monkton** _

  
_"The fierce Dinosaur was trapped inside his cage of ice. Although it was cold, he was happy in there. It was, after all, his cage._

_Then along came the Lovely Other Dinosaur. The Lovely Other Dinosaur melted the Dinosaur’s cage with kind words and loving thoughts._

_'I like this Dinosaur,' thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur. 'Although he is fierce he is also tender and he is funny. He is also quite clever though I will not tell him this for now.'_

_'I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur,' thought the Dinosaur. 'She is beautiful and she is different and she smells so nice. She is also a free spirit, which is a quality I much admire in a dinosaur.'_

_'But he can be so distant and so peculiar at times,' thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur. 'He is also overly fond of things. Are all Dinosaurs so overly fond of things?'_

_'But her mind skips from here to there so quickly,' thought the Dinosaur. 'She is also uncommonly keen on shopping. Are all Lovely Other Dinosaurs so uncommonly keen on shopping?'_

_'I will forgive his peculiarity and his concern for things,' thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur, 'for they are part of what makes him a richly charactered individual.'_

_'I will forgive her skipping mind and her fondness for shopping,' thought the Dinosaur, 'for she fills our life with beautiful thoughts and wonderful surprises. Besides, I am not unkeen on shopping either.'_

_Now the Dinosaur and the Lovely Other Dinosaur are old. Look at them. Together they stand on the hill telling each other stories and feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs._

_And that, my friends, is how it is with love. Let us all be Dinosaurs and Lovely Other Dinosaurs together. For the sun is warm. And the world is a beautiful place.”_

Marisol turned the last page and closed the book.

Sophie sighed, her golden curls shining, her face radiant. “Those dinosaurs don’t scare me even a teensy bit.”

“Read it again,” Lucy demanded.

“No girls, it’s go time.” Margo appeared in the doorway. “Time for Aunt Mari to marry her dinosaur. I mean her prince. One more run through with the flower baskets, and remember girls, tiny handfuls of white petals first on one side and then on the other, for Aunt Mari to walk on.”

“I don’t want to do it again,” Lucy said, carefully unwrapping a chocolate covered kiss.

Margo swooped over and snatched the candy out of her daughter’s hands. “Don’t you dare get chocolate all over that dress.”

Lucy screamed in frustration. “Mommy! You are a fat mean Mommy!”

“Sshh, Lucy, sweetheart,” Marisol cajoled. “You shall have a hundred chocolate kisses, let’s just get through this wedding first.”

“All right. No more practicing, we’re out of time. Get on the hay wagon, the lot of you.” Margo pointed toward the door, where the tractor idled.

Marisol’s father sat behind the wheel, ready to haul the wedding party up the hill to the barn. On his lap sat Melody, in a tiny frothy tiered dress of white mesh embellished with a pale blue blossom at the waist that she wouldn’t stop tugging at.

“All aboard that’s going aboard,” Marisol heard her father chanting.

“Aba abad,” Melody parroted from his lap.

Angela giggled. “I’ve never ridden on a hay wagon in my life. I never thought I’d do it on the way to a wedding.”

“When in Rome,” Marcus said. He offered Angela his arm. “Come with me, m’lady. Your chariot awaits. We may have even replaced the hay with cushions, just for you posh Brit types.”

Marisol stood and smoothed her hands over her dress. She loved her dress. Silky white Chantilly lace with an empire waist and a trumpet skirt, it clung to her curves and fell in a shimmer to the floor.

“Shimmy on over here and I’ll check your hair,” Donna said.

Marisol smiled and made a show of sashaying across the room to stand before the mirror. She wore flowers in her hair instead of a veil. In the mirror, she watched Donna reach out to adjust a flower, tilting her head to inspect her handiwork. “There. Ready?”

Marisol nodded. After uncorking an unlabeled bottle of Pinot Grigio from Block 14 and sharing it with her bridesmaids, she felt relatively calm. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Let’s get you married then.”

  
* * * * *

  
Marisol found she was holding her breath as she watched her baby bravely start up the aisle between her adored older cousins.

The plan was for Melody to walk between Sophie and Lucy and be captured at the end of the aisle by Mimi. She would then spend the rest of the ceremony on her grandmother’s lap.

Above the piano music came murmurs from the crowd and muffled laughter. Before starting up the aisle herself, Angela turned around with a big grin and her thumb and forefinger together in an “OK!” sign. Behind her Donna and Margo were both giggling.

Marisol breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever Melody had done to cause a ripple of laughter, at least she hadn’t plopped down on her diaper in the middle of the aisle and refused to move or screamed for her daddy.

“He looks so happy,” Margo said over her shoulder, blowing a kiss to her sister before starting up the aisle.

There was a pause, the music changed, and she heard the sound of everyone standing. Marisol tightened her hand around her bouquet to keep it from shaking. Her father tucked her arm into the crook of his. “Ready, sweetheart?”

She swallowed, nodding. “No.”

“Having second thoughts about this character?"

She looked up into her father’s teasing eyes. “No, not about Paul. But the way these last few days have gone, I’m waiting for the next crisis. An earthquake or a tsunami.”

“There very well may be an earthquake or a tsunami,” said her father sagely. “But you’ve found someone who wants to stand beside you through all sorts of natural and manmade disasters.”

Marisol nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Her first thought as she entered the barn was how perfect the white petals looked strewn across the floor. Lucy and Sophie had done a bang up job. In the middle of the white petals was a larger rose made of pale blue tulle. Melody must have managed to rip it off the front of her dress halfway up the aisle.

Marisol smiled and raised her eyes. When they say everyone else disappears, it’s true, she immediately realized. Other faces beamed at her, but Paul’s was the brightest of them all as he watched her float toward him.

The midday sun shone through the rafters in a spotlight that seemed to be aimed directly at her groom. He wore a perfectly tailored tux and a perfectly devastating smile. He looked just as she felt: overwhelmed, elated, on the verge of falling over.

Their eyes locked and the hugest smile she’d ever seen stretched across his face. And suddenly she couldn’t get down the aisle fast enough. She pulled her father forward, ignoring his quiet chuckle.

She thrust her bouquet at Margo, and Paul lifted his hands so she could take them, their fingers threading together.

“You are breathtaking,” he whispered.

“You look amazing,” she whispered at the same time.

They both giggled a little.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” said Father Gomez in heavily accented English.

“Her mother and I,” said Marisol’s father. He leaned over to kiss Marisol’s cheek. Then he patted Paul on the shoulder, welcoming him to the family, before stepping aside.

There was quiet chuckling from the audience, and Marisol realized she was supposed to have stayed on her father’s arm during that part instead of racing down the aisle and flinging herself at Paul.

“How are ya?” whispered Paul. His eyes looked a little misty. Or maybe it was her eyes that were misty.

“Excited,” she whispered back.

“I thought you’d never get here,” he said softly. His eyes took a stroll down the length of her body. She felt the attention as surely as if it were hands moving on her skin. “But it was worth the wait.”

Her smile grew a little bigger.

Beside them a throat cleared.

Paul nodded at Father Gomez, then looked back at Marisol, his fingers tightening around hers as the priest began to speak.

“Friends and family, we are gathered here today to join James Paul McCartney and Marisol Rose Hemingway in holy matrimony.

At the request of the groom, I will begin this ceremony with some words by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

Marisol’s eyes widened for a moment before she tilted her head to one side, smiling up at Paul with wonder.

“An excerpt from a letter to her husband, Robert Browning:

_You cannot guess what you are to me—you cannot— it is not possible: and though I have said that before, I must say it again…It is something to me between dream and miracle, all of it—as if some dream of my earliest brightest dreaming-time had been lying through these dark years to steep in the sunshine, returning to me in a double light. Can it be, I say to myself, that you feel for me so? Can it be meant for me?_

_You were made perfectly to be loved, and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.”_

Marisol felt her face crumpling with emotion. The fact that Paul had somehow found the time to look up those words from her favorite book, the book he’d bought her in Paris, and had given them to this priest to be read on their wedding day… it was too much. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes burned.

“Don’t you dare cry,” Paul said under his breath. He leaned close and spoke directly in her ear. “You know what our daughter will do if she sees you cry.”

He pulled back, giving her a warning look followed by the sweetest smile, and Marisol nodded and took a deep, fortifying breath. It was true, Melody wailed at the first sight of anyone she loved in tears. It would bring the ceremony to a certain halt.

“Hi Daddy,” Melody said loudly and clearly from the audience. There was a ripple of laughter.

 “Look at one another and remember this moment in time,” the priest intoned. “Before this moment you have been many things to one another – acquaintance, friend, companion, lover, dancing partner, even teacher, for you have learned much from one another these past few years. Shortly you shall say a few words that will take you across a threshold of life, and things between you will never quite be the same.  
For after today, you shall say to the world — This is my husband. This is my wife.”

The words vibrated around them. _Husband. Wife._

Paul seemed to read her mind, his eyes twinkling. He squeezed her hands. “Everything good?” he whispered.

She nodded, reminding herself to breathe. _Breathe. Bend your knees slightly. For the love of God, don't faint._

“James Paul,” said the priest, “repeat after me.”

Paul stared into Marisol’s eyes as he repeated the vows, promising to love, honor and cherish her, his expression bright and confident as he formed the words that bound his life to hers.

When it was Marisol’s turn, she felt him shift closer, clutching her hands more tightly as he watched her lips repeat every single vow.

“Mommy? Is it time for them to kiss now?” Lucy said in a stage whisper.

“Sshh!”

More laughter from the audience.

The priest turned to Marisol and asked, “Marisol, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To honor and cherish him, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish always?”

The words got stuck behind the weight of emotion in her throat. Finally Marisol managed, “I do.”

Father Gomez turned and asked Paul the same question, and without hesitation, Paul’s deep voice pronounced the two life-changing words. “I do.”

Mike made a show of pretending to lose the rings. There was a tittering from the audience, and the priest beamed benevolently down at the crowd. And then he made a gasping sound.

Marisol and Paul both turned to look at the priest. His entire countenance had changed. Sweat appeared on his brow. His watery blue eyes swam with what could only be described as panic.

He paged through his notes, a tremor in his hands, as everyone waited. And waited.

Stage fright? Marisol wondered. Where had this come from? The ceremony had up to now been letter perfect.

The priest took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“Father Gomez? Are you ok?” Marisol whispered. She fully expected the man to pass out at any moment. His face had turned an unhealthy shade of gray.

“Where were we?” the priest asked shakily.

“The rings,” Paul prompted helpfully.

Father Gomez paged through his notes some more and managed to stammer some words about the meaning of the wedding rings.

As Marisol slid the ring onto Paul’s finger, she looked up into Paul’s brilliant face and back at his hand. Damn but that ring looked good on his finger. This man was now officially hers. The thought made her practically breathless.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife in the eyes of God and the state of California.” Father Gomez raced through the words, his accent more pronounced than ever.”You may keess your bride.”

Paul’s hand came to rest at the back of her neck. His fingers threaded into her hair. “Come here, my bride,” he whispered.

He leaned in and she had to tip her head back to see him. His eyes were closed, his breathing even. She brought her hand to rest on his chest and it was that solidness that spurred her on. As she closed the last bit of distance between them, there was a fluttering sound from the rafters. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the sight of something small and black and solid whizz past and smack onto the floor of the barn not three feet away.

“What the actual fuck?” said Mike, in an amazed whisper, and more loudly, “is that a bat?”

Donna screamed and ran down the aisle with Marisol’s bouquet, giving the creature on the floor a wide berth.

And then there was bedlam.

Screams and nervous laughter and chairs scraping and the sound of feet running and everyone talking at once.

“Shit, it’s a dead bat.”

“Why did the bat die, Mommy?”

“Get away from the bat, Luce.”

“You kids get away from that creature!”

“Dad, where did you hide the blasted shovel?”

Paul opened his eyes and smiled at Marisol.

“Never a dull moment,” he quipped, as her brought his lips to hers.

Click click click went Mal’s camera. Was he photographing their first kiss as husband and wife or the dead bat? Marisol didn’t care. Paul’s lips were smooth and warm. Tiny explosions traveled along her body, like a rush of caffeine filling her veins. It was a perfect kiss, the most perfect of her life, but for the strident sound of her mother’s voice in the background.

“I knew the barn was a bad choice. Everyone out. Where there’s one rabid bat there’s a dozen more waiting to fall from the rafters. Get on with it, Marisol. Paul, let’s go. Chop chop! Off to the winery we go!”

The barn was empty except for the newlyweds and Grandma Hadley playing her heart out at the piano by the time Paul ended the kiss and smiled down at Marisol. Even Father Gomez had disappeared, hopefully to an Emergency Room.

“Mrs. McCartney? Shall we?” Paul offered his arm, and Marisol hitched up her gown with one hand and stepped daintily past the dead bat that had interrupted her nuptials. Together they moved down the aisle, now empty of spectators and wedding guests, save for Mal Evans at the doorway photographing their first foray as man and wife through a barn full of vacant chairs.

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/0ve3OYa)


	23. Chapter 23

The new Mr. and Mrs. McCartney stepped out of the barn to the sound of cheering and applause.

"You did it!" Angela said in Marisol's ear, hugging her tight.

 _Holy shit_ , she's right, Marisol realized. I'm _married_.

"Congratulations!" Mike exclaimed, beaming. He gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. "Marisol, my love, welcome to the family."

Margo's arms squeezed her, then Donna's and her cousin Judith's and more cousins and aunts and uncles that she hadn't seen in years. She felt her father's hands on her face and his giant smooch on her cheek. Mal buzzed around like an oversized dragonfly, his camera recording every hug and kiss.

Mrs. Hemingway reached over and adjusted the flowers atop Marisol's hair. "Well done, darling," she murmured, which left Marisol wondering what it was her mother thought she'd done well. Marrying a millionaire Beatle? Not fluffing her lines in the ceremony? Having a good hair day?

Her mother turned away and raised her voice above the happy chattering. "Wedding party onto the hay wagon! Off we go!"

Paul's smooth, warm hand wrapped around Marisol's bare arm. He pulled her with him through the damp grass and lifted her onto the wagon. The sun warmed her shoulders as they waited for the rest of the group to join them. Paul draped his arm around her and pulled her close. She let her hand rest on the inside of his thigh, just above his knee.

"Are you quite sure this marriage is legal?" he asked, his knee jiggling up and down.

"Of course it is, why would you ask that?"

"Did Father Gomez leave out any important parts? It seemed a bit cock-eyed, after he lost the plot at the end there." He scratched his jaw. "Is he even a priest?"

Marisol laughed and patted his leg. "Of course he's a priest, silly."

"Right. Go on and laugh. It's only holy matrimony."

"We're quite married. In the eyes of God and California. That's what he said, before he disappeared, after the thing with the bat."

Paul started to reply, then leapt to his feet to help Grandma Hadley onto the wagon.

With everyone squeezed together on bright red and gold cushions, the tractor chugged to life, towing the wedding party down the hill to the winery.

Paul turned to Marcus. "What the hell was the deal with the priest?"

"It's the strangest thing," Marcus said. "Evidently Uncle Ben has an uncanny resemblance to Father Gomez's bookie. To whom he owes a rather large sum."

"You're having me on."

"Afraid not. At some point in the ceremony Father Gomez spotted him in the audience, and, well, you know the rest. On the way out of the barn, he passed Uncle Ben, referred to him as Rocko, and said he'd have his money by next week. Then he peeled out of the driveway. Poor man's probably halfway to Mexico by now."

Paul didn't answer, but his knee bounced a little harder and he tugged at the collar of his stiff white shirt and loosened his tie a fraction. Marisol shifted closer and pressed her leg to his. Now that they were married he seemed awfully jumpy. Mal knelt at the opposite end of the wagon, taking a shot of the rows of beaming faces, all focused on Paul and Marisol. No wonder he was nervous, she realized, surrounded by her extended family. She couldn't begin to imagine how anxious she would be next weekend in Liverpool when she was up to her eyes in McCartneys.

Paul tightened his arm around her, and when she glanced at him, he leaned forward, touching his lips to hers. Mal's camera clicked. "Aww," said one of the cousins. Across from them, Sophie kissed her doll.

The newlyweds posed for photos on the veranda, and by the time they joined the others indoors, Marisol felt drunk with giddiness from the wedding and the man at her side. In the smoky, new-wine smelling warmth, music pulsed from large speakers connected to the hifi. The bride and groom were hugged and patted and congratulated and kissed by more wedding guests. Drinks flowed and appetizers appeared. Through it all, Paul never let go of her hand. The sharp press of his wedding ring between her fingers was a constant reminder that they'd done it. Married!

Every few minutes Paul lifted her hand to kiss it. She loved the way he turned their hands to look at the ring on his finger as if he couldn't believe it was there.

Dinner went by in a blur. There was some sort of raspberry chicken with a rice and vegetable medley that Marisol barely touched. Everyone got a little day drunk and wild, clinking their knives against their glasses in a bid to have Paul and Marisol kiss, again and again.

When dinner was over, Mike stood and clinked his glass. The room hushed. So quiet that Marisol wanted to giggle with nerves.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who don't know me, I'm Mike McCartney. Paul's slightly younger and much better looking brother. Which means I'm today's Best Brother. I've known Paul longer than probably anyone here. We met in the 40's."

There was reserved laughter from the crowd. From his pocket, Mike withdrew a crumpled piece of paper the size of an index card. He spent several seconds unfolding it while everyone tittered.

"Being Paul's brother has taught me a lot of things. Paul has a lot of good qualities. He's loyal and kind and handsome, as anyone can see. He shines with brilliance and talent. He is, of course, loved by everyone. He is...he's..."

Mike squinted at the paper and stumbled a little over the words. He turned to Paul, handed him the paper and announced, "I can't read your handwriting."

The room erupted in laughter. Paul shook his head and muttered, "You're such a wanker."

When the laughter died down, Mike shrugged and continued. "I suppose I'll have to wing it. My brother Paul can sometimes be the most annoying person on the planet, but he's a very fast runner so it's difficult to catch him and bash his head in. When we were younger, he had quite a tendency to listen to bands I liked and make fun of them only to buy their records and enjoy them himself a week later.

Aside from that, Paul has a lot of good qualities. He is most industrious. He was writing hit songs in secondary school while the other kids were worrying about their voices changing and hair growing in weird places. And he always had a plan. His plan was to be rich and famous and have a beautiful blonde wife. Today it looks like he's brought that plan to fruition."

Mike paused while the crowd applauded, then turned to his brother. "He's always put family first, and that is a good quality to have in a brother and in a man, so thanks for that mate."

Paul nodded, outwardly unaffected by his brothers remarks. Under the table, he squeezed Marisol's hand so hard it nearly hurt.

"There always was and always will be a lot to admire about Paul," Mike continued. "But enough about Paul. This day is about Paul and Marisol. Next on the list, compliment the bride. Hah. Easy one. Marisol, you look stunning."

There was the sound of "ahhh's" and light applause. Mike turned to his brother. "Paul, you've punched above your weight and you've got yourself a gorgeous bride."

"I'll clap for that," Paul said.

"Also, I'd like to compliment the bridesmaids and how beautiful they look today. It's a good-looking room. It's a good-looking room."

After another round of applause, Mike addressed Marisol.

"Marisol, the moment we met you we knew you were a keeper. I in particular liked you because you always laugh at my jokes, whereas Paul will just shake his head at me and call me a wanker.

You're smart, compassionate, beautiful inside and out, kind and caring. Most important, you make my brother happy in a way that I never could."

More laughter from the crowd.

"Oh. Time for a joke." Mike picked up the crumpled piece of paper. "I must say that after my honeymoon, I felt like a new man. Unfortunately, so did my wife."

Groans sounded around the room, along with a guffaw from Marisol's Uncle Patrick.

Mike cleared his throat and turned serious. "Right from a small cub I've always been so overwhelmingly proud to call Paul my brother. That's never been more true than today, mate, I'm really chuffed for you and I wish you a lifetime of happiness.

Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you'll all join me now in raising a glass and wishing a lifetime of happiness to my brother Paul, and, as of today, my gorgeous sister Marisol."

"To Paul and Marisol!" everyone chanted. They drank and cheered and Marisol wiped away a tear. The first of many. There was a short speech by her sister Margo. The gist of it was "I'm not losing a sister, I'm gaining a brother" and "I won't even know you're gone because I'll see you in the news almost every day."

Then Marisol's father gave a toast welcoming Paul to the family.

"Look after her," Mr. Hemingway said, his words slurred by alcohol and emotion. "She deserves to be treated well."

"Absolutely," Paul said. "You have my word."

And the party started. Marcus and Mike shared the DJ duties, keeping the music spinning.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom will now have their first dance as a married couple," Mike said.

Marisol had planned "Nothing Can Change This Love" as the music for their first dance. But after Mike's announcement the first few chords of "Unforgettable" began to play.

They walked to the center of the dance floor as their family and friends gathered around to watch. In her silver high heels, she was nearly as tall as Paul. The perfect height to see each other eye to eye, to whisper in each other's ears, to kiss. He pulled her closer, the fitted lace of her bodice flush against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. They spun slowly around the dance floor, swaying to the music Paul had chosen for their wedding dance. He was a musician, after all. She should've known he would have that box ticked off. He had music in his soul, in his limbs and his heart.

_Like a song of love that clings to me_

_How the thought of you does things to me_

_Never before_

_Has someone been more_

_Unforgettable_

_In every way_

_And forever more_

_That's how you'll stay_

_That's why, darling, it's incredible_

_That someone so unforgettable_

_Thinks that I am_

_Unforgettable too._

That timeless voice, liquid and soothing, the seamless mix of melody and lyrics. It was as if a magic spell was being cast. It was, of course, the perfect song for their wedding.

She'd come to England heartbroken. But the boy she'd met three years ago had captured her attention from the start. Somehow better than anything Hallmark or Hollywood could dream up. Unforgettable. In every way. The magic was that he felt the same way about her. He made her feel special and precious.

The music swelled around them and it felt like floating. Held by a man she was attracted to - mind, body, spirit - a man who was her husband. It hit her all over again like a warm gust of wind: she loved him, madly. Every inch of him, every emotion that passed across his face, every thought she knew he had right now but wasn't voicing.

"Holy shit. You're my wife," Paul whispered, reading her mind. He lowered his head. "I'm going to consummate this marriage so fucking hard tonight," he growled into her ear.

She burst out laughing and tightened her arm around his neck. "Promise?"

"You have my word. Get ready."

There could have been a hundred people watching. There could have been a thousand wailing girls outside in the streets. All they could see was each other. All Marisol could see was her husband.

"What were you thinking, when you were walking up the aisle to me?" Paul asked.

"That I couldn't wait to get to you. All that waiting around today without you was so stupid."

He nodded. "Exactly."

"What were you thinking?"

"It was overwhelming."

She tilted her head, studying his face, hoping he would elaborate. And he did. Elaborating was never a hardship for Paul.

"Just to clarify, that's not a bad thing. That's the only word for it. Overwhelming. As a groom, you wait around a lot. Your tux is itchy. You're hyper-aware. It's windy. Look at those ants over there! Why are my shoes so shiny? I really should have had another drink. I need my lady. I need my best friend."

Marisol made a happy, sighing sound and smiled.

"Then you made the turn, and for some reason, part of me was irrationally expecting jeans and one of the T-shirts you'd nicked off me, a pony tail and early morning puffy face, holding your favorite mug of Earl Grey tea. And what came toward me was my lady, my best friend, looking like a goddess. I remember every step you took walking toward me. Your eyes wide open, fixed on mine."

"I remember it too. I couldn't see anyone else."

The song drew to an end, but it was several long beats after the final notes and they were still dancing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom," someone announced, followed by cheers and the glasses clinking.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," he said, letting his eyes roam her entire face before settling on her lips.

She twisted her fingers in his hair and leaned to slide her mouth over his. Camera flashes exploded around them, and Marisol imagined the pictures of Paul holding her, spinning her slowly as they kissed. Anyone who looked at those pictures in the future would immediately know what kind of wedding day they'd had: perfect.

* * * * *

“Today was perfect,” Marisol sighed as they drove across the iconic orange bridge to the little ocean motel where no reporters would ever think to look for them. “My relatives loved you.”

“Even your mom?” Paul asked with a wink.

“She’s come around. And Grandma Hadley loved you.”

“I love her back,” Paul said. “Are you aware your grandmother once hiked into the mountains on the border between Spain and France, caught six trout from a pool below a waterfall, cleaned the fish and packed them in her rucksack between layers of ferns, and then hiked back and cooked them for dinner? All the while your grandfather relaxed against a tree. Now that’s what I call a woman.”

Marisol laughed. “That’s what I call a doomed marriage.” She smiled to herself, remembering the sight of Paul at the wedding reception, chin in hand, listening so intently to whatever it was that Grandma Hadley was saying that no one interrupted them for a good thirty minutes.

“She had nothing but good things to say about about your grandfather.”

“I know.”

“She said they couldn’t live together but they never fell out of love with each other.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think they couldn’t live together?”

“I don’t know. He was such a huge personality. A celebrity. She married again and became the town librarian, and she was quite happy about it. They wanted different lives.”

Paul squeezed her hand and hummed a response.

Marisol closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat, thinking how wonderful it had been to spend time with Grandma Hadley again. She spoke almost reverently about her life with Marisol’s Papa. Even though she never wavered from believing their divorce had been for the best, she cherished her memories of him. She was always grateful to Ernest for getting her to believe in herself.

“He taught me to believe in myself,” Grandma Hadley said. “That was like giving me the key to the world.”

It was uncanny how much her grandparents’ relationship resembled Marisol’s life with Paul. She’d seen him go from relative obscurity to fame and fortune. Paul had opened up the world for her. He was larger than life. But that was where the similarities ended. Marisol and Paul could live together happily, she was sure of it.

Even Grandma Hadley thought so. “He’s quite besotted with you. Whenever you get up and move around the room his eyes follow you.” Grandma Hadley became the second person to tell Marisol that.

“I think you have a good shot,” Grandma Hadley added as they said their tearful goodbyes.

* * * * *

They kissed on the balcony of their little ocean motel room, then slammed into the room, Paul carrying her over the threshold. He dropped her onto the bed and straightened, removing his tie.

“I'm absolutely exhausted.” Marisol stretched her arms over her head and closed her eyes. “Just a little nap would be wonderful…”

Paul went into the bathroom and she felt herself drifting. What a long but wonderful day it had been. She couldn’t wait to get home and journal about it. Home. Had she just thought of London as her home?

The sound of a zipper made her eyelids pop open. She raised onto her elbows. Her husband…her husband! was undressing in front of her, slinging his undershirt over his shoulder, stepping out of his briefs. Every glorious inch of him was hers.

No longer sleepy, she smiled and sank back into the pillows, her eyes sparkling with invitation.

“Mrs. McCartney, shall we consummate this marriage that you insist is real?”

“A little less talk and a little more action,” Marisol teased.

Paul cocked an eyebrow at her sassiness, and then he dove across the bed. His weight settled over her. His mouth moved to her neck, her shoulders.

She slid her palms up his back and over his shoulders and gasped as he returned to kiss her lips. They kissed slowly, as if their souls were making solemn vows.

His body pressed against her, pushing, demanding. The sounds of his excitement vibrated against her lips and her neck as he grew wilder, needing to taste everything, touch everything.

“Let’s get you out of this dress.”

She happily complied with this most wonderful suggestion. He was no longer just a man, or a stranger. She had moved into his country and passed from visiting diplomat to native. He gave her a passport when he asked her to be his bride. And now they were patriots together, of a newly formed, tiny country of legs, arms, bare skin to bare skin.

“Married,” Paul said quietly, as if to himself. “We had a few ups and downs along the way, but we never did lose what we found in his room.”

Marisol sighed with pleasure. What a ride it had been, the last three years. Only to end up back in this room, married. She could feel Paul watching her. Their eyes met and he smiled. He looked so young, almost innocent.

She loved his expressive, hazel eyes, his kissable mouth, his tousled hair. She loved his sculpted arms and the world’s most talented fingers. She loved feeling every millimeter of his long, lean body pressed against hers. More than all that, she loved his intelligence, his sense of humor, and the way he loved her.

Lying between the cotton sheet and her lover's skin, she felt content and complete. Now that she was Paul’s wife, things would surely become more stable, more certain. The unhappy times she’d been forced to endure as his girlfriend would be laid to rest. Whatever happened next - returning home, facing the press - they were in this together.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The embedded YouTube clips are from the home movies of Mal Evans and Paul McCartney, flying between Denver and San Francisco in early 1967 on one of Frank Sinatra's Learjets. I clumsily matched them to Frank Sinatra's "Fly Me to the Moon" and it took me bloody hours. Enjoy! xxxx

 

 

_Fly me to the moon_

_Let me play among the stars_

_Let me see what spring is like_

_On Jupiter and Mars_

_In other words, hold my hand_

_In other words, baby, kiss me_

_Fill my heart with song_

_And let me sing for ever more_

_You are all I long for_

_All I worship and adore_

_In other words, please be true_

_In other words, I love you_

 

The bed shook violently, but it was the noise more than anything that woke her from a sound sleep. The building creaked and groaned. Windows rattled, the closet door swung open and banged repeatedly against the wall. An iron fell off a shelf and clattered to the floor. In the bathroom, something fell off the counter and shattered on the tiles. Underneath it all was an audible rumbling, like a large truck passing by, which only got louder. Marisol felt her heart pounding from the adrenaline rush before she was fully awake.

Paul unwrapped himself from around her and sat bolt upright. “Faaaackinelll!!” he yelled.

She opened her eyes to see him surfing his way across the room, arms out for balance. The shaking changed to rolling. It felt exactly like ocean swells. “Water is splashing out of the pool!” he called from the window. “Should we bail outta here?”

“I think we’re okay…”

There was no sign the building was in danger-- no cracks in the walls or plaster or dust falling around them. Only this shaking that seemed to go on and on, even though it might have been only thirty seconds more. When it finally stopped, the silence was eerie. Paul was still braced against the window, peering out into the moonlight.

“Baby, what time is it?” Marisol asked, stretching her arms over her head.

He squinted at his watch. “Not even five bells.”

“Come back to bed. It's cold. We have to be up in an hour.”

“Should we ring your ma and pa?”

“No, they’ve been through much worse. I bet the horses didn’t like it though.”

She snuggled under the blankets, but there was to be no more sleeping. Paul wanted to talk about his first California earthquake, how the noise was overwhelming, and how disorienting and confusing it was.

“I woke up and didn’t have a blind idea where all the fuggin’ noise was comin’ from. No word a lie, I could hear the tectonic plates grinding. Was it a big one, as earthquakes go?”

“I don't know, depends on where the epicenter was. It felt like maybe a 5, 5 and a half?”

“I never knew solid ground could roll like that. That was so fuggin’ disconcerting, like, when terra firma is no longer so firma. ”

“It's always a little scary, especially in the dark. All you can do is wait for it to stop and hope it's only a tremor.”

“I'll whip you away from all this, love. You'll be safe in England.”

“Ha. The girls outside your house are scarier than that earthquake.”

“Our house,” he corrected her.

“Our house.”

She lay in his arms, eyes closed, waiting for sleep to claim them. His fingers played a soundless tune on her bare back, keeping her awake. “Fall asleep with me,” she whispered. She felt his cheek against hers crinkle in a smile.

“How can you sleep? My heart is still pounding. Feel this.” He took her hand and shoved it down the front of his pajama bottoms.

She giggled and curved her hand around the hardness of him. They could sleep on the plane.

He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her on top of him and she went willingly, her mind already spinning ahead to all the delightfully dirty things he might do to her in the next hour. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of her hair. She kissed his throat, his chest, his belly, the dark stripe of hair that narrowed and disappeared into the band of his soft flannel pajamas.

Sleep was so overrated.

* * * * *

Marisol's entire family had come to the private airfield to see them off. They huddled inside the terminal, holding paper cups of coffee and chattering about the earthquake.

Marcus said the horses woke him with their whinnying at least half a minute before the earthquake. He went to the window to see what had startled them and watched a flock of barn swallows swooping crazily from tree to tree in the moonlight. Seconds later the earth began to shake.

“The animals felt the earthquake before it was cool,” said Donna.

“Scared the piss out of me!” Angela said. “I ran into your kitchen and ate myself back into a state of calm.”

“Is that what happened to our two weeks worth of emergency provisions?” said Marcus.

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“Well shit. I was this close to finishing my Etch A Sketch masterpiece and then the earthquake happened,” Mike quipped. “So I threw a chair through your window and stole your TV.”

“Mistakes were made,” said Mal.

Margo was beside the wall of windows swaying back and forth with a bleary eyed Melody, smooching her chubby cheeks.

“Was she a good girl?” Marisol asked.

Margo looked up and there were tears shining in her eyes. “I don't want her to forget me again.”

“She didn't forget you.”

“She hardly knew me.”

“You’ll come to London for Christmas.”

Margo sniffed and nodded and gave Melody one last kiss before handing her over. “We will. We’ll see you at Christmas.”

Marisol's arms tightened around her baby. She breathed in the sweet scent of her hair. Melody wriggled. “Down," she said. "I want Daddy."

“You and everyone else.” Marisol lowered Melody to her feet and she was off like a drunken baby Frankenstein towards Paul. Then she saw Lucy and Sophie playing in front of a vending machine and stopped, torn with indecision.

“Are you worried about the press?” Margo asked.

“Should I be?”

“Not at all. Just smile and cling to your husband. Let him handle it.” Margo gave her a lingering hug. “Happiness looks gorgeous on you. You’ll do fine.”

They parted, and Margo wiped at her nose and sniffed again. Marisol tried not to meet her eyes, afraid she’d end up crying. “We’ll see you all in a month.”

“I’ll see YOU on the front page tomorrow. And on television.”

“Ha. Okay.”

Mrs. Hemingway appeared with a lavender cloth drawstring bag. “Darling. Here are the cards from your wedding gifts and a box of thank you notes for you to take care of during your flight. Do try to post them when you land in New York.”

“Oh. Of course. Thank you, Mother.”

Her mother kissed her cheek and smoothed an errant strand of hair. “Keep your chin up darling, and when you face those nasty reporters, stay strong. Even if the whole world is throwing rocks at you, you have your whole family behind you, and that’s a lot. Some deep-rooted part of you will always know you are loved. That you deserve to be loved.”

Marisol felt her hands grow clammy as she wrapped the drawstring bag around her fingers. “You think the entire world is going to be throwing rocks at me when I get home?”

Her mother sighed. “It’s not ideal, darling. You pop up out of nowhere married to one of the most eligible men in the world with a baby in tow. To the world it looks awfully sudden. You’ll be asked if he married you because of the child and other tawdry questions. I assume he’s prepared you for what you’ll be facing.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course he has,” Marisol said, pinching her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. Had she and Paul ever talked about how she was supposed to handle questions from the press? Not that she could recall.

Her mother pushed her hand away from her mouth. “Don’t touch your face, you’ll have breakouts. Remember to drink water on the airplane. Both you and the baby. Hydration. It’s number one.”

“We’ll drink lots of water and we’ll remember we’re loved.”

“Don’t forget to change into your travel suit when you land in New York. Don’t eat salt, your feet will swell.”

“Brilliant advice. What would I do without you?”

Her mother opened her arms and they embraced for a long moment, patting each other’s backs.

“Ring the moment you arrive.”

“Of course.” Marisol gave her mother a final squeeze. No mother is ever, completely, a child’s idea of what a mother should be, and Marisol assumed it worked the other way around as well. But no matter how much you thought you could leave your mother behind, she would always be there, in the tender places in you.

Across the room Marisol spotted her father deep in conversation with Paul. He looked to be imparting some sort of crucial information. Probably telling him how to invest his money, if Marisol were to guess. Or how to threaten reporters. She watched Paul nodding politely at her father, then bending down to swoop up their daughter.

She heard a sniffling sound behind her, and Donna wrapped her arms around her. “We have to do better at staying in touch. I miss you.”

“I know, Donner, me too. Please come see me?”

“I will, I promise.”

They broke apart, and Marisol kissed her friend’s cheek. “It was so good having you here through all this. Promise you’ll call me.”

“I will.” Donna wiped at her eyes. “There were television cameras outside your house this morning. I couldn’t get up the drive, everything locked up tight. A couple of them knocked on my window, they thought I was you.”

“Ugh. Sorry girl. They thought you were me?”

“Yep. I had to wait until your Dad drove out in the T-bird and run to his car, and they were yelling at me - ‘Miss Hemingway, can you give us a statement?’ and ‘Where’s Paul?’ and ‘When’s the wedding?’ and your father rolled down the window and said in his big booming voice, ‘I’ve asked you to leave my property, now I’m filing a complaint’ and they sort of scattered.”

“I guess they’ll be waiting for us when we land. We’re taking a commercial flight from New York, so we’re sure to be spotted.”

“Get ready to play Twenty Questions about your personal life. Are you anxious?”

“Of course I’m anxious.”

“Give short answers. Nothing they can twist around.”

Marisol pinched her bottom lip. She looked across the waiting area and found Paul watching her. When he caught her eye he nodded toward the window. A young, professional looking uniformed pilot was performing the preflight walk-around, inspecting the fuselage of a small pointy-nosed Learjet with orange trim and a distinctive T-tail.

It was time to go home.

Inside, the jet had four leather seats at the rear of a 17-foot cabin, a pull-out card table, a jumpseat at the front and a black leather couch along one side, running up to the cockpit. Captain Riley introduced himself and welcomed them onboard. There was a brief demonstration of safety features and a tour of the food fridge and fully stocked liquor cabinet, which got whistles of approval from Mike and Mal.

Marisol sat on the couch with Angela and Melody, casting longing looks toward the front as everyone settled in. She was an aviation geek through and through, from a childhood spent playing around airport hangers with her siblings, waiting to be flown to Idaho on fishing trips with their father.

While Captain Riley was giving his spiel, she’d had a moment to check out the tiny cockpit. All the bells and whistles and new technology were there, yet she recognized all the instrumentation and felt sure she could fly this little engineering marvel with a few lessons.

Her father, also an aviation geek, had given her a little history on this aircraft. Frank Sinatra was the first celebrity to own a private jet, and if ever a plane played among the stars, it was this one. He used it to shuttle the Rat Pack from Los Angeles to Las Vegas and to his home in Palm Springs. He used it to intimidate Michael Caine when he was dating Sinatra’s daughter Christina. He loaned it out to his celebrity friends, including Paul McCartney.

Paul stowed their luggage and said a few words to the flight crew. Then he motioned for Marisol to join him at the front.

“Your husband says you’re a pilot?” Captain Riley said.

“Yes sir, I have my private pilot’s license.”

“Care to sit on the jumpseat for takeoff?”

Marisol’s eyes widened. “I’d love to. Thank you.” She gave Paul a smile and a look that said “you are going to get so lucky when we get home." She buckled into the jumpseat with a perfect view of the cockpit.

“I’m Thomas,” the copilot said. He handed her a headset so she could listen in as they finished filing their flight plan and conversed with Air Traffic Control. “What do you fly?”

“I learned in a Cessna."

“You’ll get a kick out of this. There isn’t another jet produced in the world today that has the climb performance of the Lear 23. Climb-out generates 3G and the engines sound roughly like the end of the world,” he enthused. “It’s about as close to flying a fighter jet as you can get in a civilian airplane.”

The takeoff was so quick and so steep that looking out the windows was pointless. Marisol mainly watched the instruments, along with the crew. The view out the window might tell you up from down when you’re flying a jet, she learned, but it wouldn’t help you stay on the assigned altitude, airspeed and heading with the accuracy required. Jet flying was 100 percent instrument flying.

Her eyes continually scanned the instrument panel. All the bells and whistles and new technology were there, yet she recognized all the instrumentation and felt sure she could fly this little engineering marvel with a few lessons.

At cruising altitude, the headsets came off and they talked about flying for a few minutes before Marisol thanked the crew and joined the others in the back of the airplane. The men had the card table pulled out and were well into the liquor cabinet.

“Did you enjoy your visit to the cockpit love?” Paul shook another cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. A cloud of gray smoke hovered over the back part of the cabin.

“It was amazing.” She watched Mal opening a box of cigars labeled “Christina II.”

“You aren’t going to smoke those in here are you?”

Mal looked up, shrugged, and stuck a couple of cigars in his shirt pocket. Marisol waved a hand in front of her face. She reached up and twisted open the air vents, directing a stream of air at the table full of smokers. It couldn’t be good for Melody to breath all this smoke for five hours, she thought, her protective instincts aroused. Paul narrowed his eyes at her through a haze of smoke but made no comment.

Melody was happily playing on the leather couch with her new brown-haired Chatty Cathy doll, a present from Mimi.

“Blimey, look at this!” Angela held up a box of matches emblazoned with the words “Christina II…In Flight…” She looked around to see that nobody was watching before pocketing the matches. “So this is how the other half lives.”

There were sandwiches and fruit and snacks and anything they could think of to drink. Crossing the country with a toddler had never been so quick and painless. When they were two hours out of New York, Marisol decided Melody could do with a nap before they switched airports in Manhattan traffic. She unpacked Melody’s favorite blanket and her Mrs. Periwinkle stuffed toy and made a comfortable little nest on the couch. “Mel, come and lie down and Mommy will read to you.”

“No!” Melody decisively shook her head.

Marisol lowered the window shades and lifted her daughter onto the couch. “Do you want me to tell you a story about Mrs. Periwinkle?”

“No no no no no!” Melody crawled across the couch and climbed into Angela’s lap. “Change a dress,” she gurgled, imitating her Chatty Cathy doll.

Angela laughed and patted her back. “That’s right, love. You do YOU. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re sleepy when you’re not.”

“Fine then. Auntie Angela can hold you all the way to London.”

In the back of the airplane Paul and his brother and Mal shuffled their cards and drank their booze and smoked their cigarettes as the miles zipped by. Marisol tucked her feet underneath her and angled her body in the seat, smiling as she watched Angela and Melody dressing Chatty Cathy in her bedtime clothes. It had been a perfect trip so far and she hadn’t a care in the world, she thought as her eyes drifted closed.

She awoke to the sound of the engines changing pitch, followed by an announcement from Captain Riley indicating they were on initial approach into Teterboro. She must have slept for the last two hours, with her arm on the back of the seat and her head flopped over. Deep sleep. She’d even drooled on her sleeve a little. That must have been attractive. She turned her neck this way and that, working out the kinks. She remembered all her mother’s instructions for the flight: “Write your thank you cards and post them in New York. Drink plenty of water. Change into your travel suit. Remember you are loved.”

Across the aisle, Paul looked up from the composition book he was writing in, smiled and winked at her. Well. One out of four wasn’t bad.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked Paul as she stood and stretched.

“Writing a song about Nashpool.”

She wondered if she’d misheard him over the sound of the engines. “Pardon?”

He chuckled. “Nashpool. The new capital of music. John’s written a song about Liddypool. Thought I’d write one of me own.” He tapped his pencil against the notebook. “I miss me guitar. My fingers are itching to play.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go so long without a guitar in your hands.”

“My hands were busy doing other things though,” he said quietly, which elicited a smile from her at the memory of their wedding night. Her new husband had so many talented parts.

They were brought back to Earth, literally and figuratively, as soon as they landed in New Jersey. Marisol dashed into a restroom to change into her more presentable creamy white travel suit. Mike secured the hired car that was to rush them to JFK to catch their Pan Am flight while Mal rounded up the luggage. After refusing to eat anything at all for the last five hours, Melody suddenly began pulling at her mother’s handbag and crying “Biscuit, Mama, now!”

It was already late afternoon in New York, and the city pulsed with its usual cacophony of technicolor sights and sounds and smells. Impatient drivers in yellow taxis blowing their horns, sidewalks teeming with pedestrians on the move, sweet peanut vendors on every corner and billowing white steam coming up from manhole covers and grates. Manhattan was busy doing what it did best - teeming with life and possibility and hope.

They arrived at the international terminal without much time to spare, Mal leading the way at a rapid pace. That was the way Paul liked to move when in public, Marisol had learned. He could go places as long as he never stopped moving. People would catch a glimpse of him, do a double take, and he’d be gone. At the departure lounge, an airline agent recognized Paul and whisked them outside onto the tarmac and up the air stairs onto the plane.

The air hostesses were all smiles, breaking into applause as Marisol and Paul, with Melody in his arms, stepped into the First Class cabin.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. McCartney! Welcome aboard! Happy to have you join us today!”

It took Marisol several seconds to realize what all the fuss was about. She couldn’t remember ever being welcomed onto a plane so effusively. Then she realized the flight crew was congratulating them on their wedding, and she wondered how on earth word had gotten out so quickly.

A bottle of champagne was presented to the newlyweds and drinks were poured. Scotch for Mike and Mal and coffee for everyone else. Smiling uniformed beauties hovered over them until the other passengers began to arrive. Then a slender brunette in a powder blue suit and matching jaunty hat positioned herself so that she was mostly blocking Paul from view.

“Seat 12B. Straight back on your right,” she’d say, shooing anyone away who dallied too long beside their row.

A few passengers gawked at them for a second or two and moved on. A middle-aged woman asked for an autograph for her daughter. “Sorry Ma’am, not now,” said the stewardess, tapping her watch face. “We can’t push back until everyone is in their seats.”

A long-haired young man defied the air hostess long enough to flash a copy of Revolver at Paul. “Hey man! I’m going backpacking and look what I’ll be listening to!”

“Hey hey!” Paul said, laughing. “Take that, Rolling Stones.”

Twilight was falling over the city when the 707 lifted off into the sky, pointed East. It would be morning when they touched down in London, an entire day missing. Such was the cost of falling in love with a man who lived halfway around the world from your family.

Melody settled in for the flight happily enough. She was becoming a pro at this. And there was really nowhere she’d rather be than in her daddy’s lap. They were served a four course meal after which the cabin lights were dimmed. Outside the plane, nothing but cold black skies and ocean. Melody yawned and rubbed her fists against her eyelids.

Yes! Marisol thought. Paul was the best baby wrangler. Everything was easier when he was around.

He rooted in his leather flight bag and pulled out an ancient looking dark green book, a little boy and a bear etched on the cover in gold.

“Winnie the Pooh?” she asked. “Where did you get that lovely old book?”

“My own copy,” Paul said, “from when I was a wee lad. The arl fella found it when last he moved house.”

“Christopher Robin has a Beatles haircut.”

Paul frowned at the cover. “If you say so.”

Then he began to read to their daughter. “You can’t be in London for long without going to the Zoo.”

Marisol settled back in her seat with contentment. Even though this day stretched endlessly on, there was no one she’d rather spend it with. Within minutes Melody was sound asleep with her head lolling against her father’s chest.

“Don’t stop,” Marisol whispered, smiling at her husband. With that soothing voice and lilting accent of his, he could read a Chinese menu and weave a spell over her. And so they flew on through the night, with Paul reading softly from a book that had been read to him as a child.

“Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.  
‘Pooh!’ he whispered.  
‘Yes, Piglet?’  
‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. ‘I just wanted to be sure of you.’”

He looked up from the book at that moment and smiled at his new bride. And Marisol’s heart melted with love.

"Keep going," she whispered, but he closed the book, leaned over and pressed his lips to hers, and Marisol knew she had never felt such contentment and peace.


	25. Chapter 25

[](https://imgur.com/Ci7aZpt)

“Place of residence?” The bored Customs agent barely glanced at the couple standing in front of him.

“London,” Paul said.

“Me too, London,” Marisol added. She clung to Paul’s arm, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Who knew what mayhem awaited them beyond the doors of Customs & Immigration? It boggled the mind. Paul gave her a reassuring wink. She tried to smile at him. On his shoulder, Melody slept on, unfazed by the too bright lights and the general airport clatter of announcements and aircraft noise.

“Do you want to see our marriage license?” Marisol said.

“No,” said the agent, stamping their passports.

They stood to one side to wait for the others to clear Immigration.

“I need you to take the baby home in case we get separated,” Paul said to his brother. He eased a slumbering Melody into Mike’s arms.

“Right Wack, got it.”

“Angela, Mike will get you home, or to ours, whichever you want.”

“Okay…” Angela exchanged a worried glance with Marisol.

“Ready?” Paul said to her, reaching for her hand.

“Umm…”

“We’ll walk fast. Nothing to it.”

The thick glass door to Customs & Immigration slid open and Marisol stepped through, looked to her left and froze. Flashbulbs filled the room with quick explosions of light. A group of men in dark suits lunged at her amid a volley of shouts. Marisol’s first instinct was to turn and flee back through the door, but Paul propelled her forward into the group of newsmen.

“Oh shite. Here we go,” Paul said through gritted teeth.

Someone shouted her name and Marisol automatically turned her head in the direction of the voice. A bright bulb flashed in her face.

“Marisol! Paul! Look this way! Over here love, give us a smile!”

A recording device was thrust under her chin. "How was the wedding? How does it feel to be married to a Beatle? Paul, how does it feel to be married finally?”

As Paul tugged her hard to the right, a man in a suit emerged from the crowd and wrapped a hand around Marisol’s other arm. She instinctively shrank away until she realized he was someone she should recognize.

Paul snarled at the man over her head, even though the expression on his face remained placid. “What the bloody hell, Tone?”

“You didn’t give us much time to react, Paul.”

Suddenly Mal Evans was in front of them, forging a path through the heaving crowd of newsmen, yelling at them to stand back. The flashes kept firing.

They turned down a corridor and were thrust into an empty conference room. The door slammed on the reporters and Paul dropped Marisol’s hand and glared at Tony. “Fucking hell, Tone! I can't believe this shit! I’d have you sacked again but Brian would only hire you back in a coupla days!”

“I know, I know.” Tony held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Take a few minutes to compose yourselves. I’ve promised them a short press conference.”

“You’ve WHAT?!” Paul roared. “For fuck’s sake, do you realize we’ve been traveling for an entire day and a night?”

“We’ve got to give them something, Paul. It was your decision not to get out in front of this.”

Paul spat out more profanities and pulled at his hair with both hands, leaving it standing it up in little tufts.

“Right,” said Tony. “I’ll leave you to get sorted.” He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

“OUT!” Paul yelled, pointing at the door.

Tony cast one last glance at Marisol, his lips tightening. She realized he likely viewed her as a huge thorn in his side. The entire Beatles organization likely felt that way.

The door slammed and Paul continued pointing at it. “THAT should never have happened.”

“Tony Barrow I presume,” Marisol murmured. She looked around the room. There was a pitcher of water and glasses on the table. She poured herself a glass and discovered her hands were shaking violently.

“There’s a loo in here, if you want to freshen up,” Mal said, opening a door at the back of the room. “I’ll be outside if there’s anything you need.”

The door closed softly and Paul turned to look at Marisol. He huffed out a loud sigh. “Christ. That should not have happened. Tony should have arranged for a car on the tarmac once he knew it was gonna be a mob scene.”

“Okay,” she said, taking a long drink of room temperature water.

“Are you okay?” He came close, lifting his hand and massaging her neck.

She nodded.

“Do you need anything?”

“Ice,” she said.

“Be serious.”

“I never joke about ice.”

Paul shook his head and lowered his hand. He stood with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his trousers, looking grim, apparently still fuming about the way they’d been accosted by the press. “If you want, I’ll tell Tony we can’t do it after flying all night. We’ll wait in here until they clear out. Or..." He took a deep breath. "Or we can power through and give them some nice pictures and they’ll leave us be for a spell. So. Which way do you want to go?”

Marisol put down the glass. “Let’s get it over with.”

“That’s my girl.” Paul gave her a hint of a smile.

She lifted her hand and smoothed down his hair. “Dibs on the loo.”

They brushed their teeth side by side in the small bathroom.

“You look a little pale,” Paul said, meeting her eyes in the mirror as he tucked his toothbrush back in his carryon bag. Marisol looked away, busying herself with rinsing her toothbrush. She couldn’t help feeling cross with Paul for not preparing her for that mob scene. He’d lived in the spotlight for years. Shouldn’t he have known they’d be ambushed as soon as they arrived in London? And now she had to face a press conference full of reporters after flying all day and night. She hadn’t a clue what to say to them.

Bending over to spit toothpaste into the sink, she automatically reached up to hold her hair out of the way. Paul beat her to it, gathering her hair in one hand. When she straightened, he kept hold of her hair, winding it around his fist.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said, forcing her to look at him. “I promise it will be okay.”

“You don’t know that. What if they ask us why we didn’t get married right away when we have a baby? They’ll make it a big scandal. They’ll make me out to be a harlot. And what if they dig up dirt on Papa Hemingway again?”

“No, love, they won’t. Tony is in there setting the ground rules. If they start down that road the interview ends. Right now the big story is the last single Beatle has married. They want photographs to sell some newspapers and a few remarks by the happy couple for the evening news.”

He stroked her hair. “In a few weeks, when the furor dies down, they’ll ambush us when we least expect it. That’s when they’ll turn it into a scandal.”

He smiled sweetly, but she couldn’t make herself smile back. His smile dimmed. “Babe. You’re really upset. You’re doing that thing with your bottom lip again.”

She let her hand drop. “You should have told me there would be a press conference. You should have prepared me on the plane, instead of writing another blasted song. You should have told me what to say.”

“I should have told YOU what to say? No way. Sounds like a trap.” He chuckled.

She stared at him, her expression impassive.

His face crumpled. “Sweetheart. You’re getting all worked up over this. You don’t have to say anything at all. Mo and Pattie hardly said anything. They only smiled and looked pretty. Unless you want to say something, then say it. Your call.”

“That’s really no help at all.” She fixed her eyes on the collar of his suit. They were on the verge of having their first married fight. And they hadn’t even made it home. Her hand went up to brush away a piece of lint from his shoulder.

He sighed. “Look, you’re right, I’ve been interviewed for many years by people all over the world, and what I've learned is to just be yourself. Unless you're really boring or a bit of a knob. Then you try to suppress that and be really fake. In your case, neither of those apply, so just be yourself.

“Be myself? Myself wants to throw up right now.”

“C’mon,” he said, his voice sounding the slightest bit exasperated. “Don’t let them rattle you. All they want is some pretty pictures and an interesting soundbite or two, which I will be happy to provide. No problem. No one expects you to give a speech. The people at home, they want to see what our lives are like. All they want is for us to look like a happy couple.”

He pulled a silver flask from his carryon bag, unscrewed the top and brought it to his lips. Grimacing, he handed Marisol the flask. She sniffed. Scotch. Oh well, she thought. Needs must. She tilted the flask and finished it off in a few swallows. With a cough and a shudder, she handed him back the flask, and he made a big show of it being empty, which she ignored.

“Baby. C’mere.” He lifted his hand to the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his. Before she knew what was happening he was kissing her deeply, massaging the base of her neck where a tension headache was starting to pound. He was minty and whiskey flavored and strong and warm and all hers, and she felt herself melting into his embrace. Because, she realized, he was more than capable of handling the press. He was clever and strong and on her side, and she wasn’t alone. She’d never be alone again.

He pulled away and searched her eyes. “The only thing we have to do is look madly in love. Do you think we can pull it off?” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting up. Somehow her arms were now wrapped around his neck and she was pressing herself fully against him.

She nodded mutely, still reeling from the Scotch. Or the kiss. “Time will tell,” she whispered, straightening and loosening her grip on him. _This_ _man_. He was worth a few minutes of inconvenience and a few rude questions shouted at her. Absolutely. Because she got to go home with him when it was over.

He stepped back, gracing her with a full McCartney smile. “Smile, Ermine,” he coaxed.

She attempted a smile. “Okay. But only because you arranged for me to sit in the cockpit on the way to New York.” She faced the counter and began sorting through her purse, looking for the right shade of lipstick to meet the press. Happy Coral? Not feeling it. Lasting Kiss? That would work.

“Why are you nicknamed after a weasel?” he asked, watching her paint the pink shade across her lips.

“What are you talking about?” She smacked her lips together and eyed him in the mirror.

“Your brother calls you Ermine. I heard him.”

Marisol barked out a laugh. “It’s ‘Erman! Like Hermana, in Spanish.”

“Whatever, Ermine,” Paul said, grinning at her in the mirror. He nudged her playfully. “C’mon Ermine, let’s go have our picture taken. You look stunning by the way.”

Marisol shot a last glance at her reflection. There wasn’t much more she could do with no sleep. The door opened and Tony Barrow cautiously peeked inside. “Ready to go?”

The newsmen were corralled in a nearby conference room. Paul kept up a steady patter as they made their way down the corridor, clearly trying to distract her.

“I hope I don’t slip and call you Ermine in front of the reporters,” he teased.

“I’m 100% certain you won’t do that,” Marisol said.

“Shall I tell them how a rabid bat fell out of the rafters just as Father Dementia pronounced us husband and wife?”

Despite her nerves, Marisol giggled. “No.”

“Shall I mention how I made the earth move for you yesterday morning?” he said, too loudly.

She swatted him. “Stop.” But she was grinning widely at her new husband as the door opened and they walked into the room, hand in hand.

She heard a gasp of air from several people in the crowd before the flashbulbs started to fire.

Paul often had that effect on people when he entered a room, but she’d thought these world weary reporters would be immune to it. Apparently not. The room was full to bursting, the crowd closing in on them, big flashes of silver light popping all around them.

Paul was all smiles, his arm outstretched as if presenting his bride to the crowd. Then he pulled her close to his side.

Everyone began shouting at once. Representatives of all the British dailies were on hand as well as an international contingent of reporters. Marisol noticed American accents, French, German, Italian, and others she couldn’t identify. For the first time, she realized she and Paul weren’t headline news in only England and America. Their wedding was an international sensation. She imagined people all over the world reading about them tomorrow over their muesli. She clutched Paul’s arm and focused on appearing calm.

“Kiss her, Paul!” someone shouted.

Paul leaned in, dipped his head and touched his lips to hers as cameras angled closer and flashbulbs lit up the room. “You okay, Ermiine?” he whispered against her lips.

“Yes,” she whispered back with a shaky smile. He does this all the time, she reminded herself. All you have to do is smile and not pass out.

“If the cameras in the front could please move to the back so everyone can get their shots,” said Tony. “Those of you in the front please move to the back.”

There was some shuffling and mild protests and a new group of cameramen surged forward. “How’s about another kiss, Paul?” someone asked, and Paul happily obliged.

“See? This is fun, innit, Ermine?” he whispered, giving her a cuddle.

Marisol ducked her head and smiled and the cameras whirred.

“Paul! How does it feel to be married?”

“Why did you wait so long to get married?”

“Why did you marry an American?"

“Paul! Paul! Please, over here!”

Tony Barrow called for order. “One at a time, ladies and gentleman, one at a time. If the cameras could move to the back now, we’ll begin.”

Paul and Marisol perched on the edge of a table, facing the room full of reporters with their recording equipment. A volley of questions lobbed at them received short, succinct answers from Paul.

“Paul! What does it feel like to be married at last?”

“It feels, fine, thank you.”

“What are you going to do now? Is it going to change your life much, do you think?”

“I don’t know, really. I’ve never been married before.”

“Are you going away for a honeymoon?”

“Maybe. We haven’t really made any plans, you know. We may get away for a coupla days but I’ve got some work and stuff.”

“That gets in the way of the honeymoon?”

“It does, yeah.”

“Why did you wait so long to get married?”

“I dunno, you know, I’ve been on tour for years. Not much time for a home life. Finally we have a bit of a break and the timing was right.”

A female reporter with an American accent asked, “Why did you choose an American rather than an English girl, Paul?”

“Her mother is English, you know. But it wasn’t the nationality that swayed me.”

“What was it?”

“It was the girl herself.”

“Mrs. McCartney, congratulations,” said a man with a cultured English accent.

Marisol shot a quick glance at Paul and they both giggled, reading each other’s minds. Who the hell is Mrs. McCartney?

“What does it feel like to have just married one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, to be the envy of all the ladies?”

Marisol felt Paul’s arm tighten around her. “It feels great to be married,” she said, surprised to hear her voice sounding calm and assured. Maybe Paul’s confidence was rubbing off on her.

“How did you get him? Thousands of…millions of girls all over the world have been trying to get him for years. How did you pull it off?”

Well I think we’ve reached the end of this conversation, was what Marisol wanted to say. Or maybe: Did you actually intend to be that rude? Or even: Do you really expect me to answer that?

“You’ll have to ask him,” was what she finally settled on.

“Paul, why did you pick this one?”

“We just clicked. Simple as that.”

“Looks like you made a good choice.”

“I think so.” Paul smiled at his bride. Their eyes met, they kissed, and the cameras clicked and whirred.

“Paul, many of your fans, the girls, who have been waiting outside your house, seem to be more than upset about this. What do you feel about that?”

Paul bit his lip, appearing thoughtful. “Um. I don’t know what I feel about that, you know. We’ve only just arrived in London. I really haven’t spoken to anyone.”

“Do you think you’re going to lose any fans because you’re married now?”

“I shouldn’t think so. I’d like to think our music is what draws the fans, not whether we’re single or married.”

“Paul, where’s the baby?”

Marisol sucked in a breath and tried not to react. She had to consciously restrain herself from tugging at her bottom lip.

“Sleeping,” Paul said. “Sleeping it off. She has a terrible drinking problem. From her mother’s side, obviously.”

The room rang with laughter. Despite herself, Marisol laughed too, amazed at how artfully Paul had handled the first question about Melody. She shook her head at him, grinning, and the cameras went wild.

“How does it feel going from being single and unencumbered to being a family man?”

“Oh, terrible,” Paul teased. “It’s a terrible imposition.”

“When will we have some pictures of the baby?”

“We’ll add you to our Christmas card list,” Paul quipped.

“That’s all, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” said Tony.

“Paul, please, just one more question?”

“Mrs. McCartney, what does your family think of you marrying a Beatle?”

“Paul, what are you going to do for the rest of the day, are you going to have a celebration?”

As Mal hustled them to the door, Paul paused for one final answer. “Yeah, we’ll have a bit of a rest first. It’s been a bit hectic.”

As if to underscore his words, they were met with complete bedlam in the airport terminal, now surging with fans who had been alerted to their arrival. A wedge of bobbies flanked the couple and shoved through the heaving crowd.

“Marisol, can I have a word?” A female reporter shoved an envelope into Marisol’s hand. She instinctively took it as they were swept out the door.

“Paul! We love you!” cried dozens of teenagers, all clamoring to squeeze closer to the happy couple. “Paauuull! Pleeaase!” the girls wailed.

They were bumped and jostled and manhandled into a waiting black limousine. Cameramen angled for parting shots as girls threw themselves at the car. Mal squeezed into the front seat beside the driver and they peeled away from the curb, leaving the madness behind.

“Watch those girls!” Marisol gasped, her heart in her throat as the driver narrowly missed running down a trio of sobbing teenaged girls.

“You were superb.” Paul said, kissing her forehead. “Wrap that one up and mark it ‘Fab’.”

“I didn’t really say anything…”

“Exactly. The best possible way to handle them. Leave them wanting more.”

“I don’t even have my purse…or my luggage!”

“Tony will sort it out.”

Marisol sighed. What a day. Looking down, she noticed the envelope clutched in her hand. She slid it open. Inside was a neatly typed letter on elegant letterhead stationery and an engraved business card.

“Paul…look at this. Woman’s Day magazine wants to know if I’m interested in writing a monthly column—“

Paul took the letter and flicked his eyes over it. “Well that’s out of the question.”

“I never said I would do it.”

“Of course you won’t do it. They’d only be using you to get to me.” He folded the letter and opened his coat.

“Give me that.” Marisol snatched the letter before he could secret it away in a pocket.

“Marisol. You can’t possibly be thinking of—

“Listen to this!” In the front seat, Mal turned up the radio, broadcasting a live news report.

“It’s weepy time down south. The last bachelor Beatle is no longer a bachelor. Paul McCartney married Californian Marisol Hemingway on Saturday in the bride’s home town of Sonoma.

Returning to London Airport moments ago, they battled their way through the shrieking, sobbing press of devoted fans who surged round the newlyweds as they made for their car. London bobbies and Fleet Street photographers battled with tear-stained teenagers who were bidding farewell to the bachelordom of the Beatle who held out against marriage for so long. At last the twosome found sanctuary in their car but it was oh so clear that Paul’s plans for a quiet homecoming had gone drastically wrong somewhere along the line. Exit the McCartneys, on their way home to their mansion in St. John’s Wood.”

“That only happened thirty seconds ago. How do they do that?” Marisol wondered.

Paul closed his eyes and muttered an oath. “I hope Our Kid has made it home before the shit storm.”

“What do you mean? Everyone was at the airport, right? We did the thing, so we’re done, right?”

Paul chuckled mirthlessly. “Sweetheart. We’re never done.”

“But you said…” She trailed off, biting her lip. She could scarcely remember what he'd said. She’d been so anxious it was a wonder she remembered her own name. “I wish I had my purse,” she muttered.

Paul was staring out the side window, frowning, lost in his head.

It seemed as though every young would-be Mrs. McCartney within a fifty mile radius of St. John’s Wood was on Cavendish Avenue. More reporters with cameramen joined them by the black gates.

Bobbies lined the drive, no doubt alerted by the neighbors to the growing throngs. They helpfully held back the crowd as the limousine inched into the courtyard. As soon as the car stopped, Marisol flung open the door, ready to dash inside the house where her baby waited. She could already hear her two dogs barking madly. But Paul reached for her hand before she could escape.

“We’re going to have to do a few more photos and questions, love. And we really should talk to the fans.”

“Oh come on,” Marisol groaned. “Will this day never end?”

They stepped outside the limousine. Mike was standing at the open gate, like a lone Roman guard at Hadrian’s Wall, holding back the advancing barbarian hordes.

“Why, Paul, why?” wailed the girls.

“Can you give us a moment, Paul?” yelled the reporters.

“I wish there were fifty fucking more of me sometimes,” muttered Paul under his breath. “Hold them off until Tony gets here,” he ordered Mal.

Inside the house, a cheery fire in the fireplace warmed the front room and Angela had the kettle on.

“God bless you,” Marisol said, gratefully reaching for a cup of tea. Angela had brought out Marisol’s favorite tea set— the porcelain hand-painted cups with no handles that Paul had sent home from Japan.

“To everything (turn, turn, turn) there is a season (turn, turn, turn)” sang The Byrds on the stereo.

Melody sat happily in the middle of the floor with her hands firmly clamped around a very patient cat while the dogs scampered about, nosing from Marisol to Paul.

“Is that Thisbe?” Marisol pointed at the cat. “She looks huge.”

“Mrs. Kelly says she’s expecting kittens,” said Angela.

“Oh hell,” Marisol said, pinching the bridge of her nose. She knew there was something to do with the cats that she’d forgotten to take care of. “Well shit.”

“It’s sexy when you swear,” Paul said. “You should do it more often.” He kissed her on the forehead, accepted a cup of tea from Angela, and summoned Marisol into the dining room.

“Are you kidding me?” Boxes and wrapped packages were stacked halfway to the ceiling along one wall, and a mountain of mail covered the dining room table.

Mike walked in with a large, gold wrapped package and dropped it at Paul’s feet. “Hey, Gaf. Come get your prezzies, there’s loads more outside just arrived.”

Marisol brought her hand to her mouth. “I’ll still be writing thank you notes on our fiftieth anniversary.”

Paul picked up a silver package and shook it. “Well isn’t that a lovely thought. You think you’ll keep me that long, even after the way today has gone?”

“It hasn’t been so bad,” Marisol admitted. “If we could just get some sleep we’d be fine.”

But sleep was not in the cards for the new Mr. and Mrs. McCartney.

Tony Barrow arrived with the luggage and arranged for the waiting reporters to interview the newlyweds on the front steps. While young McCartney widows sobbed in the street, these new reporters asked utterly daft questions. Here at home, everything seemed a bit more relaxed.

“Do you sing?” one of them asked Marisol.

She caught Paul’s eye and laughed. He was biting back about a dozen smart ass and racy responses. She could see his eyes dancing with the effort of holding them back. “Not so much,” she said.

“Mrs. McCartney, I’m a big fan of your grandfather. Have you any books in the works?”

Marisol laughed again. “No. My husband is the writer in the family.”

“Paul, do you think you’ll miss the single life?”

“Not at all,” Paul said. “I had my wild time, but I’m happier now. This life means much more to me.”

By prior arrangement, after a few minutes Angela brought Melody outside, freshly bathed and dressed in a lavender coat and hat and tiny black patent leather shoes with white tights. In her daddy’s arms she posed for the cameras, opening and closing her fist, waving and blowing kisses, charming the photographers and somehow ignoring the increasing ruckus from the street.

After another round of questions and what felt like hundreds more photographs, Melody was trundled back inside the house and Tony escorted the reporters off the premises.

Paul heaved a sigh. “Let’s go talk to the girls.”

They stood just inside the gate, with Mal positioned between them and the dozens of teary-eyed, spurned teenage spinsters.

“Why did you get married, Paul? Why?”

“Come on, now. You knew I had to get married someday.”

Marisol tried hard not to roll her eyes.

“You said you wouldn’t marry until you were 30,” one of the girls said accusingly.

“Yes, she’s right, you promised,” said another.

“What? That’s not right. I never did,” Paul said.

“If you had to get married, why couldn’t it have been Jane?” asked a girl with big crocodile tears running down her pale cheeks. “At least we knew her!”

“We don’t even know this one!”

“You’ll get to know her. And you’ll like her, she’s quite nice, really.”

“No, we won’t. It should have been Jane.”

Paul blew out a breath. “Come on, girls. Be reasonable.”

“I hear the baby calling me,” Marisol lied.

“All right, love. You good?” Paul searched her eyes, as if he was trying to determine how much this scene was upsetting her.

“Right as rain,” she said.

He gave her a tiny peck on the lips. A few of the girls screamed as if they’d been knifed in the heart.

“I’ll be right in,” Paul said.

“Girls, please. You have to give me a break,” Marisol heard him say as she let herself into the house. “You can’t stand out here crying all day long. I can’t take it. It’s doing me head in.”

By mid-afternoon, a light rain began to fall. The wedding presents continued to pile up, and carloads full of well-wishers, friends and acquaintances of Paul’s rang and dropped by the house. Mrs. Kelly set out a buffet meal for the guests who wandered in and out. Mike kept the drinks flowing, and Angela stayed to help with Melody.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Marisol told her friend several times that day.

“You’ve got to get some sleep,” Angela said, but they both knew that was unlikely to happen.

 

By early evening over three dozen sobbing females had turned up in front of the Cavendish home to mark the solemn occasion. They stood like statues in the rain in front of the dark brick wall which protected their idol, who, sadly, was no longer free and available. Every few minutes or so, the wailing girls would fall silent until one of them would apparently recall a particularly tender memory of her beloved Paul and her agonized sobbing would set off the others.

By bedtime, Paul was on the verge of tears himself.

“For the love of god, Paul, why are you crying?” Marisol finally asked him.

“I’m not crying,” he said, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. “I don’t fancy hearing them this upset and knowing I’m the cause of it, that's all.”

“Well I don’t know what to say to that.” Marisol’s own eyes filled with tears.

Paul groaned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, love, I just feel bad for them, standing out there in the rain, crying like that. It’s rather sort of heartbreaking.”

“Right. Heartbreaking.” Marisol gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. “Well I think it’s ridiculous.”

Paul didn’t respond.

“Okay. I’m going to bed. I can’t take one more minute of this day.”

She began walking away but her husband stopped her, wrapping his arms around her. They swayed together for a long moment, both of them exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. An especially loud wail sounded from the street.

“You need to call the police on them.”

Paul stepped away, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked more exhausted than Marisol had ever seen him.

“I’m not calling the cops. They’ll go home soon. Poor girls, they’re probably drenched.”

“Well why don’t we invite them all in to warm up by the fire?”

He didn’t say anything. He looked up and to the left, ruminating, thinking his thoughts.

“Oh my god. You’re actually considering it. You’ve lost your damn mind.”

His eyes focused on her. “What are you talking about?”

Marisol sighed. “I’m going to bed. Make them stop it, Paul. They’re going to wake up the baby and stir up the dogs and the neighbors won’t stand for it.”

Paul stood for a moment, shuffling his feet. Then he nodded toward the stairs. “I’m going up to the studio for a tick.”

“Fine. I’ll be in bed. Where you should be. With your new bride. Remember me?”

He was halfway up the stairs. She couldn’t even tell if he’d heard her or not. A window creaked open on the third floor and she immediately felt the cold, damp breeze waft down the stairs. An anguished cry went up from the street, followed by the soulful sound of a guitar. Followed by rapt silence from the girls outside, as they listened in the rain to the man they loved.

Marisol readied herself for bed and lay in the dark, listening to her husband’s impromptu concert for the grieving girls. Did he need his fans so much, she wondered, incredulous, that he couldn’t bear for them to be sad over his marriage? Was she really going to have to share her husband with a pack of teenage girls who hated her? As exhausted as she was, sleep didn’t claim her. She wrapped her arms around Paul’s pillow and listened to the sound of his guitar, her eyes wide open in the dark room, and she waited for her new husband to come to bed.


	26. Chapter 26

[](https://imgur.com/vitnSQz)

 

Marisol supposed she'd get used to stumbling upon random people having cornflakes at her kitchen table before she was fully awake. This morning it was Tara Browne, with Mike, sharing a newspaper over their cereal. The good news was they'd already made tea.

“You've made the front page, Sis.” Mike held up the _Daily Mail_ with a photo of Paul and Marisol below the fold.

“Well look at that.” Marisol tightened the belt on her navy kimono and scrutinized the newspaper, pleased to find she didn’t look utterly terrified in that particular photograph.

Tara scraped back his chair and stood, kissing Marisol on both cheeks in the French way. “You've done it now, darling girl! Gone and married the last Beatle! I barely made it inside for all the McCartney widows flailing about and beating their breasts.”

“Are they still out there?”

“Course they are. True love never dies.” Tara flicked a hand to the newspaper. “You'll be recognized now, wherever you go. You're infamous.”

“It's bloody petrifying, that,” Mike said. “The look people give you when they're trying to suss out if you’re famous is the same way they look when they want to chin ya.” Mike squinted his eyes and mugged an intense scowl, to Tara's delight.

Tara giggled in his uninhibited, childlike way. He grinned at Marisol. “I've brought you a present, dear girl. Where is the Mister?”

“Still sleeping it off. We had quite a day…actually two days, when it was all said and done.”

“Come with me. I can't wait any longer to show you.”

By the front door were two sets of matching designer luggage, with engraved leather tags. “The journey is everything” was etched on the back of the tags.

“Tara! You lovely man, you're so thoughtful! I love these!” Marisol knelt on the floor in front of the largest suitcase, running her hand over the pebbled leather. “Thank you!”

“You'll think of me when you use them and send me postcards from all the glorious places life takes you, won't you?”

“We definitely will. Paul will love these.”

Every time Marisol passed through the dining room full of presents, she felt stunned by the outpouring of love. Her new husband had many friends who loved him, and many who wanted something from him. The challenge was, she supposed, figuring out which was which.

Tara paused in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the knot on his scarf. He was dressed in the latest fashion, a peacock blue jacket and paisley shirt and, of course, a green silk scarf.

Paul dressed like Tara now, especially since their trip to Paris. When he came home wearing his French scarves, the fans noticed and brought him more. Now he had quite a collection. Marisol was even wearing some of them herself.

“Do stop by mine, love. Tell your Mister I’ve just got the new Bang & Olufson receiver. So powerful it has warnings on the back.”

“The what?”

“The new Beomaster. He’ll know.”

The phone began ringing at the same moment the gate buzzed. Marisol looked at her watch. Nine o'clock in the morning must be the time the party started in northwest London.

She heard Mike answering the phone, so she followed Tara to the front door. There was a moving van parked in front of the house, and Beau and Cookie had scampered around from the back garden to bark madly at the front gate.

“Are you expecting movers?” Tara asked.

“Who knows what to expect around here,” Marisol said. “I just roll with it.”

With Tara’s help, she corralled the dogs and brought them inside. A man named Mr. Vaughan claimed he was here to collect Mr. McCartney’s piano for painting. Hunter Davies was on the phone asking how Paul felt about John Lennon's latest remarks. Mike told him to ring back at noon. The phone immediately rang again. “When d’ye want the round bed delivered?” Mike called from the next room. And two girls were hanging over the gate photographing Marisol in her kimono. That would teach her to wander around her own home without getting dressed first.

Bless her, Melody was somehow sleeping through all the noise. Marisol quietly closed the door to the baby’s room and flung open the door to the master bedroom. The room was chilly - Paul liked to leave the window open a crack and snuggle under the blankets. She jumped on the bed, straddling him.

“Wake up! Someone’s here to steal your piano. Should I stop him?”

He groaned, then opened his eyes and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down and trapping her. “Mmm. Why do you have so many clothes on?” He reached between them, pushing his hands inside her kimono and finding her breasts.

Marisol straightened and took his hands in hers. “No time. The circus has already started downstairs and everyone is looking for the Ringmaster. That’s you. Are we expecting a round bed?”

“Not that I know of.” Paul tugged her down beside him and flipped the bedspread over their heads. He held it up with one arm so it felt like they were inside a tent. “Never mind all that. No one will ever find us in here.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Marisol murmured. Paul kissed her neck and entwined his warm legs with hers and it was hard to remember what she’d come up here for. Except she’d left the bedroom door open and she could hear voices downstairs. “Paul. Do you want the piano painted? There’s a man…” His warm mouth moved lower to her breast and her voice trailed off on a moan.

“But the door is open…” she protested.

Paul flung the covers back, letting icy air into their tent. “Give me your wrap,” he said. Then, dressed in the kimono, he stomped to the central stairway and shouted.

“Michael! Get Mr. Kelly upstairs to handle all this shit. I’m on my honeymoon.”

He clomped back down the hall and slammed the door to the master bedroom. “The fuck am I paying for live-in help if I can’t even have a lie-in on my honeymoon.” He threw off the robe and dove onto the bed.

Marisol held back the covers as he crawled inside with her. They snuggled together for warmth. “Where were we?” he whispered, nibbling her ear and running his hand down her side to her hip, caressing and kneading her bare skin.

“You’re going to wake up the baby with all that yelling and banging around, you caveman.”

“You want a caveman? I’ll give you a caveman.” Just like that, he flipped her over onto her stomach. She thought about reaching back for him but he put both hands on her shoulders and ran them in a rough caress down her back and then up again.

She went boneless with anticipation, only to draw in a sharp breath as he gathered her hair in his hand and wrapped it around his fist. “Ow! You’re pulling!”

His voice was beside her ear, his knees bracketing her hips. “Admit it, Mrs. McCartney, you like it rough. I’m going to make you scream.”

“The baby—”

As if by telepathy, Melody began to wail from her bedroom down the hall. It was an angry cry and didn’t sound like it was going to stop any time soon. Paul’s grip on her hair loosened. Marisol turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “She’s probably starving, she went to bed so early.”

“Mrs K will see to her,” he suggested hopefully.

“Sweetheart. She sounds really distressed. Imagine waking up in a different bed every day, jet-lagged and confused and hungry and wet and all alone.”

“I don’t have to imagine it. I lived it for the last eight years.”

“I can only hope you woke up alone. And not wet.”

Paul heaved a sigh and rolled off of her. He swung his legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, scratching idly at his chest. “I thought Cookie slept in the baby’s room so she wouldn’t wake up alone.”

“There’s way too much going on around here. Cookie has to guard the house from sixteen people wandering around inside and another two dozen trying to climb over the gate.”

“Only two dozen? I knew we would fade away when we stopped touring.”

He wandered around the room, picking up discarded clothes. He picked up a green flowered shirt, sniffed it and put it on. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. We’re recording the fan club Christmas record tonight and wives and friends are invited. You may even get to join in.”

Marisol sat up, a genuine smile on her face. “I get to go inside EMI?”

“Sure. Just this once a year, the wives can come. I think we'll do some sort of pantomime. And I’ve got to write it.” He looked up from buttoning his shirt. His hands stilled. “If you don’t put those tits away I won’t be able to write a word.”

Her thoughts were still on the night ahead as she pulled on the kimono and went into the bathroom. “I’m a Beatles wife. How bizarre,” she said into the mirror.

“One of the few and the proud,” Paul answered from the bedroom.

When she’d washed her face and pulled her hair up into a ponytail, she found Paul zipping up a pair of dark green trousers. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and buttoned them again in the right buttonholes. “You missed one,” she told him.

“Your tits were an enormous distraction.” He kissed her and they stood looking at each other in the doorway, neither of them keen to face the day ahead.

“Oh…I forgot. Tara wants you to come by and see something. I forgot what he said. A beast or something. Something powerful.”

Paul’s nose wrinkled. “He what?”

They both laughed.

“I can’t remember. This place is such a circus my thoughts get scrambled.”

“I’d like to scramble you,” Paul said, pulling her close and nuzzling her neck.

“Mama! Dada! Out! Out!” Melody squealed from down the hall.

The newlyweds reluctantly parted. “To be continued,” Marisol said.

“You can count on it,” her husband said with a wink.

*

Since their arrival from America yesterday morning, Paul and Marisol had not been seen together publicly. A throng of eager reporters and photographers swarmed their car later that night when they arrived at EMI studios.

“Wait for Mal and walk fast,” were Paul’s instructions as he parked the car in the lot. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Seconds later Mal loped down the steps of the building. He opened Paul’s door and accompanied him around to Marisol’s side of the car.

“Paul! Paul, might I have a word please?” someone shouted.

“Yes, yes.”

“Can you comment on John Lennon’s statement yesterday about the future of the Beatles?”

“I don’t know what was said, exactly.”

“John made the remark that the Beatles can make half a million for a television special, so why go through the terrible trial of being badgered by kids and never seeing any part of the country you’re traveling through.”

Pausing beside the steps, Paul rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “Well I don’t know about that. You’d have to ask our manager, he arranges all that. We’re working on a new LP right now, you see. Hopefully it will be more intricate, interesting, introspective, all of those things.”

“What about Mr. Epstein, Paul, how is his health?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s good.”

“Hasn’t he been in hospital?”

“Everyone’s fine. Thanks for coming, we’ll see you.”

“How is married life Paul?”

“Oh, it’s grand. Very nice.”

“Mrs. McCartney, how is married life?”

“Very nice,” Marisol repeated.

A female reporter at Marisol’s elbow thrust a recording device under her chin. “Mrs. McCartney, what do you have to say to people who think you are a poor example to young girls by having a child out of wedlock?”

Marisol shrank away from the woman. “Um…I don’t…” Before she could form more words, Neil appeared out of nowhere.

“You. Out of here.” He jerked a thumb at the reporter. He shoved the microphone out of the way and inserted himself between Marisol and the crowding journalists.

“What’s your name? Who are you with?” Paul asked the reporter over his shoulder, but Neil was urging them forward. “Here we go. Let’s get you inside.”

They sprinted up the steps and inside the building, and as soon as the door was closed, Paul began to rant. “Who was that bitch?” he demanded of Neil.

“I’ve never seen her before.”

“I don’t want to see her here again!”

“It’s okay,” Marisol said, rubbing his arm soothingly. “I was expecting it. You said they would ask things like that, when the honeymoon was over.”

“That was a short honeymoon. Facking press c—-ts.”

“It’s okay,” Marisol said again, trying to placate him. Nothing was going to ruin this night for her. She squeezed his arm, smiling up at him. “Now show me where you work. Show me where the magic happens.”

“Well that’s in our bedroom, love. You already know.”

They laughed a little, but it sounded hollow in the large reception area. Paul was trying to ease her way into his world, she knew, and it clearly rattled him when reporters shouted rude things at her. But she was tough, like her father always said. She was a Hemingway, she could take it. She would keep her eyes on the prize. Her loving husband.

Neil was waiting for them in front of a large art deco doorway, a somewhat bored look on his face.

She gave him what she hoped was a dazzling smile. “Hello stranger. Thanks for rescuing me out there.”

Neil nodded. “Congratulations, and all that. Mal said you were a beautiful bride. How’s the family?”

“Everyone’s good. My mom says hello.”

“Wish I could’ve come to the wedding, but I’ve been attached at the hip to Lennon these last few months.”

“I heard you were in Spain. We missed you though.”

Neil didn’t quite meet her eyes. There was always the elephant in the room with them now, the fact that Neil and Angela had once had a fling. Wouldn’t that have been something if the two of them been trapped together in a small airplane for hours on the way to and from California?

They turned down a narrow corridor, lined with all sorts of extraneous recording equipment and stacks of chairs. A short set of stairs led down to a back exit manned by a security guard and an ornate flight of stairs led upwards. Then Paul announced “Studio Two” and they were inside a small control room packed with more chairs and tables holding the latest recording technology. Tape decks and mixing boards with dials and switches and knobs, so many knobs. Marisol was slightly surprised by how clinical it all seemed.

“So here it is,” Paul said, gesturing to the large plate glass window. “EMI Studio Two.”

A couple of men in white coats nodded at them and moved aside so Marisol could have a gander at the studio, a full story below. So this was where the magic happened. In a large, high-ceilinged white room that was very dirty and looked like it hadn’t been painted for years. Gold drapes lined the white walls. Old sound baffles hung down, some of them broken. There was a big hanging light in the center but no windows, no daylight.

A grand piano stood in the center of the room, surrounded by microphones, a rack of headphones, miscellaneous equipment and cords trailing in all directions. She recognized George Martin below, chatting with John Lennon, while George and Ringo and the wives gathered at the back of the room. They stood beside some sort of enormous folding partition, rigged with green and red blinking lights, presumably to get everyone in the mood.

Paul took her by the hand and led her down the long narrow flight of stairs along one wall, shouting greetings to the others all the way down.

“Hello bub!”

“Good evenin’!”

“Howzit George!”

Pattie spotted them and waved with a squeal that sounded too loud in the cavernous room. “Ah look, it’s the newlyweds!”

Marisol was greeted by the other wives more effusively than ever before. Now that she was one of them, maybe they’d all decided they could trust her. There were kisses and hugs and lots of excited chattering.

“Welcome to the club!” Pattie enthused.

“The club?”

“You’re the fourth and final member of the Beatles’ wives club,” said Maureen.

“Let’s hope she’s the final member,” said Cyn.

“Oh, c’mon now,” said Pattie. “It’s nearly Christmas, let’s all be festive."

Neil appeared with another guest, a very tall and very blonde Liverpool friend of John's named Pete Shotten. The three of them disappeared behind the partition, and Marisol got a strong whiff of the Beatles' favorite fragrant pastime. The others wandered back and forth, getting into the spirit.

Babycham was uncorked and glasses were passed around. Moods were merry. Maureen, being newly pregnant, wanted tea, but the fridge in the back of the room was padlocked. Ringo spent a good ten minutes breaking the lock to get the milk out. "Every night we break the bloody lock," Ringo complained. "Do you think after four bloody years someone would realize, 'oh they drink tea at night too'?"

"Where's John?" George Martin asked at one point.

"Shennon and Lotten!" George Harrison yelled.

Marisol watched with amusement as George Martin stepped behind the acoustical screen to query John on some technical aspect of recording. Pete, who was holding a regular cigarette in one hand, had just taken a joint from Ringo with his other hand..

"Oh, George!" John blurted. "This is Pete Shotten, an old friend of mine from Liverpool."

“Hello. Nice to meet you,” said Mr. Martin, holding out his hand.

There were a few seconds of awkward shuffling before Pete finally put the joint in his mouth so he could shake Mr. Martin’s hand. George Martin fixed him with a quizzical look before turning his attention to John.

If Mr. Martin knew or cared what the Beatles were smoking behind the partition, he gave no sign of it.

The four Beatles were soon in a huddle at the piano with Mr. Martin and an engineer in a white coat, looking over the pantomime Paul had written. John insisted on a few changes.

At Mr. Martin’s direction, men in brown coats set about moving equipment around. It wasn’t long before Marisol and the other wives were given their instructions. When John said the words “Behind them, the festivities had already started” that was the signal for the wives to clink glasses and whoop it up. They did a run through, and Marisol was surprised at how loud Pattie was, considering she seemed quiet until the recording started.

After only two takes, the Christmas record was a wrap.

Everyone relaxed for a bit except for John, who stood in front of George Martin, his acoustic guitar at the ready. “It goes something like this,” John said with a nonchalance. Then he began strumming gently. A couple of introductory chords, and he was straight into a starry, echoing line: “Living is easy with eyes closed…”

John's wonderfully distinctive voice, with its unique nasal quality, now had a slight tremor, making the song more poignant. It was gentle, dreamy, and uncharacteristic of John-- different territory from his past songs. A hazy, idyllic dream world, evoking a summery meadow in warm sunshine, where you could drift and dream in a blissful limbo. Marisol was spellbound. So this was the song Paul had hinted at, composed in Spain with all the languorous heaviness of a Spanish summer afternoon, despite being a memory capsule of a childhood spent in the north of England. If this was a measure of things to come, the Beatles would have another superb album. The extremely privileged private performance sent a shiver along her spine.

“What do you reckon?” asked John, quite nervously, when he had come to a stop.

“It’s great, John. It’s a really great song. How do you want to do it?” George Martin said.

“You’re supposed to tell me that,” John said flippantly.

“To be honest,” George said, “I wish we’d caught that first run-through on tape.”

For the next few hours Marisol sat on a red cushioned metal chair with the other wives and insiders, while the Beatles ran through rudimentary versions of John’s song and one of Paul’s. It was like they no longer existed to the performers, sitting quietly on the periphery of the action, not daring to speak. All of them aware of how privileged they were to be here watching and listening to these snapshots of the insides of the Beatles’ brains.

They were all so hip, so devastatingly hip. They were also all so high. Every ten minutes or so someone would go behind the partition and come out speaking in tongues. Sparks were flying off them.

It was fascinating watching them work that night, from a musical perspective and a psychological perspective. Especially when Paul decided to give Ringo direction. “Play it like on that track we heard the other night.”

“For Christ’s sake, there are two drummers there. I’d have to have four arms to do half the stuff you want me to do,” Ringo complained. He went behind the partition, muttering, “I’ve got three people telling me what to do.”

“Fuckin’ Ada,” John said under his breath a few minutes later. “Do I have to sing it again, can’t you just do it automatically?” he yelled up at the control room.

Mr. Martin looked down from above with a frown, like an officious schoolmaster.

A passing engineer shook his head and muttered, “He just says things, he doesn’t understand.”

“Let’s call it a night,” Mr. Martin suggested.

*

It was after midnight when they left the studio, relatively early in Beatles time. The night was cold and windy and it felt like snow. With no interference from fans or reporters, they walked around the corner to Heroes, a quiet little pub where EMI technicians often went for a pint or several.

The pub was practically empty on this wintery night, and everyone relaxed around a table at the back near the bar. A waitress emerged from the kitchen and took orders for pub food and drinks.

The Beatles were still in studio mode, talking about what went well and what could have been better, while the girls sipped their drinks and listened.

A clean cut young man with close cropped hair suddenly appeared in front of their table. Dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie, his attention was fixed on John.

John looked up from his pint. “Can I help you, brother?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lennon. Can I just say, I’m a big fan. The biggest.”

“Aw, that’s nice.”

Neil got halfway to his feet. “Beat it, mate.”

John waved a hand. “No, no. He looks harmless enough. Let’s hear him out. What’s your name, son?”

“Hugo,” he said, smoothing a nervous hand over his tie.

“Hugo, you look quite serious. What is it you do?” Paul asked.

“I’m in insurance.”

The four Beatles exchanged looks. Marisol had the feeling they each knew what the others were thinking without having spoken a word.

“I wasn’t going to guess that, but I could have,” said John.

“I might’ve said undertaker,” said Ringo.

“Where are you from, Hugo?”

“I’m from Hull. I saw you at the Majestic, supporting Little Richard in ’62. Great show. Truly great.”

“Ah. Hull. Well that explains it.”

“Flower power hasn’t really reached Hull yet, has it Hugo?” said George.

“I saw you in ’63 at the Majestic in the ice and the snow. I would’ve done in ’64 but I’d just had my wisdom tooth extracted, quite unexpectedly, and it wouldn’t stop bleeding.”

John grimaced. “C’mon now son, you’re testing our mettle with that one. We were looking for some sort of uplifting tale and you come out with that bit about bleedin.”

“That’s not fun,” Paul said. “Full stop on the fun.”

“That was really dark and stressful,” said George. “That took me to a weird place.”

“No, I’m all better now,” said Hugo.

“Well, I’d hope so, two years on,” said George.

“So the bleedin’ story had a happy ending?” said Paul.

“Of sorts, yeah.” Hugo nodded amiably.

“Well tell us then, Hugo,” John coaxed. “We’re all ears. Delight us with a tale.”

“Well…alright then. Two friends came over to look after me that night,” Hugo said. “I wasn’t feeling very well, and then I had to go to the loo.”

“Oh, here we go.” John nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes.”

“Having gone to the loo,” Hugo continued, “I was peeing away, and suddenly I fainted dead away. There was obviously a loud bang because my two friends came sort of rushing in, and as I woke up from the fainting, I realized that my willy was out and I was still peeing.”

The table erupted in laughter.

Neil got to his feet, took Hugo by the arm and led him away from their table.

Marisol pressed her face into Paul’s shoulder, trying to control her giggling.

“Nice of you to stop by, Hugo,” John called after him. “Thanks for the memories.” He turned back to the table. “Good anecdote though. I thought it would be boring as shit and suddenly the toilet came to save us, and he ended with his willy out.”

“A happy ending,” Paul said. “Meanwhile, I remember that last show in Hull. That was the night I got bonked on the head with a cigarette lighter.”

“How much do you think he’d had to drink?” Cynthia wondered.

“I think that tale was a metaphor,” John mused. “A metaphor about Hull.”

“Are you saying Hell?” Marisol asked.

“No love, it’s Hull. H-U-L-L.”

“Have you been there?” George asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh you really must get there,” George said. “They have the most fab patties. Little slabs of fried mashed potato…usually served with chips.”

“Hmm. Fried potato with a side of fried potato then.”

“That’s right.” All eyes turned to her, as if to say, _you want to make something of it, Yank?_

“No, it sounds lovely. I’ll get there right away. Tomorrow if possible.”

“Enough about Hull,” Maureen said. “Tell us about your honeymoon. You’ve just been to Paris, haven’t you?”

Paul’s eyes lit up. “Can I tell them the story about when you lost your toothbrush in Paris?”

Marisol swatted his knee playfully. “No.”

“Oh come on, love. It’s brilliant.”

“Oh, whatever. I don’t care. You can tell it.”

“You tell it. You do it so much better.”

“Will someone tell the bloody story?” John said. “You’re like an old married couple. Christ, the two of you.” John gave Marisol a mildly disgusted look. “Between your excessive sweetness and his courtliness, it’s like hanging out with a Valentine’s card.”

“Fine. It’s no big deal,” Marisol said. "We got to the hotel and I couldn’t find my toothbrush. So we went to the pharmacy and Paul, the only one of us who can speak any French, wandered off, leaving me to fend for myself.” She nudged him in the ribs.

“Yeah, I went to look at the magazines, and then I heard all this commotion and I find Mari standing there grinning, holding her new toothbrush. The pharmacist is doubled over laughing, the cashier is doubled over laughing. I said, ‘what have you done to them?’”

“Go on, go on.” John motioned for Marisol to take up the story.

“Well, I thought, you know, the French can be very nice and friendly if you make an effort to speak their language instead of speaking English all the time. So I went to the pharmacist and I said, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. Je…voudrais…”

At this point Marisol pantomimed brushing her teeth, which coincidentally also looked exactly like she was miming giving a blow job.

“Ah. Classic rookie error,” John said, as everyone dissolved in laughter.

“No language barrier there,” Ringo added. “The universal language of love. And toothbrushes.”

Paul squeezed her hand, beaming at her, looking so proud that his best mates accepted her.

“Tell us about Spain,” Marisol said, when she’d had enough of being the center of attention.

“We played a lot of Monopoly and a lot of Risk and that’s about it,” John said.

“And we stayed in a haunted convent, there was that,” Maureen added.

“Haunted? How so?” George asked, skeptically.

“The electric supply kept going off at the strangest times,” Cynthia explained.

“And the ribbon in my nightdress was tied in a knot while I slept!” Maureen said.

“You sure it wasn’t your husband did that?”

“Ritchie’s never been one to try and keep me IN my night dress!”

“She has a point there,” Ringo said.

“And there was this one night I threw a party to shock the spooks,” Cynthia said. “The house was plunged into darkness…again…so I spread candles throughout the villa. Suddenly everyone began singing, and it was magical, as if our voices and and bodies were instruments and outlets for the spirits of the nuns who once lived in the villa!”

“I’ll have some of what you were on in Spain,” Paul remarked.

“I’m happy to be back, I’ll tell you that for nothin’,” John admitted.

They were a merry group when they were bundled into two limousines by Mal and Neil. Paul and Marisol were dropped off first, with only a handful of girls at the gate braving the chilly night. Paul was in a festive mood, drunkenly singing “Orowayna” as he signed for the girls. Marisol shushed him. “The neighbors!” she reminded him.

“Don’t listen to her,” one of the girls said. “Sing for us!”

“Right, don’t listen to her, she’s only my wife.” Paul winked at Marisol. “My beautiful wife,” he said, sounding the slightest bit out of it. He finished the last autograph book and handed back the pen. “Go home girls, it’s brass monkeys.”

Mrs. Kelly was asleep in the rocking chair next to Melody’s bed. “Mrs. Kelly,” Marisol whispered. “We’re home.” The older woman startled into wakefulness, and Marisol felt a twinge of guilt for staying out so late.

“Was she good?”

“Oh yes. Oh my, I must have nodded off,” Mrs. Kelly said, patting her hair into place and smoothing her skirt. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was reading and I…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes widened, and she froze.

Marisol followed the woman’s gaze to the book face down on the rug next to the rocking chair. The book that looked exactly like…

“Is that my journal?” Marisol bent down and retrieved the book. “How did…I don’t remember bringing this in here.”

“Oh my. Well, you know, it’s so hard to keep a house in order with a little one. I’ll be off then. Goodnight.” Mrs. Kelly practically ran out of the room.

Paul was lounging in a bath of hot soapy water, whistling “Everywhere It’s Christmas" when Marisol stormed in. “That woman has been reading my journal!”

“What woman?”

“That Mrs. Kelly!”

“What makes you think that, love?”

“Because she said she was reading when she nodded off, and THIS was the only book in the room!”

Paul arched a brow. “Must have been riveting stuff.”

“That’s not the point! I’m very careful with my journal! I keep it…never mind where I keep it, but I never would leave it out on the floor in the baby’s room!”

“All right love, put it back where it belongs and come take a nice hot bath with me.”

“Paul, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“What do you want me to do? Did you confront her?”

“No! She ran out, and I was too…stunned.”

“I’ll tell her tomorrow to stay out of our room.”

“It’s so invasive. And now I feel like we need to keep the bedroom door locked when we go out.” Marisol slumped against the counter, her journal clasped to her chest. “Paul, I don’t even feel like I have privacy in my own home.”

He heaved a sigh. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting? Isn’t it possible you left it there yourself? I’ve seen you writing in the baby’s room before.”

“I am not overreacting and I did not leave my journal out, she is spying on me.”

A sudden shiver raced down her spine. Her teeth were starting to chatter. “And another thing. I am not having this blasted window cracked open all winter long!”

Spinning on her heel, she went straight to the bedroom window, slamming it closed with more force than was necessary.

She sat on the edge of the bed, shivering, and thumbed through her journal, wondering how much of her private thoughts that woman had read. It was intolerable. She wanted Mrs. Kelly gone, but how could they manage without her? They’d have to hire a nanny at the very least. Paul liked going out at night, and they couldn’t leave their baby with any random babysitter.

The room was icy. Marisol dressed in her warmest flannel pajamas, the ones that gave off the “don’t touch me” vibe.

She was wide awake with her back to Paul when he finally came to bed. He curled his body around hers, wrapping an arm around her, finding her hand and threading their fingers together.

“I’ll have a word with Mrs. Kelly, love. I’m sorry you’re upset. And I know you haven’t been getting much sleep. But did you have fun tonight? At the studio, and after?”

Marisol had to admit that she had. “I had a lot of fun. It was a wonderful night.”

“You smell so pretty,” he said, tucking his face against her neck. “My sweet bride.”

And that was all it took to soften her heart. She’d thrown a hissy fit and slammed the window, and Paul’s reaction was to take it in stride and hold her and tell her she was sweet. Which somehow made her want to be sweet for him. Maybe he really was the perfect man for her.

She turned in his arms. “I really do love you,” she whispered.

“And I really do love you.”

“Even in flannel pajamas?”

His teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he smiled. “Let me explain something about how men think. There is absolutely nothing sleep-related that doesn’t look sexy on women.” He let go of her fingers and dipped his hand under her flannel shirt. “Granted, some things are sexier than others, but in terms of a sleepwear scale, it starts at ‘alright, I’m into that’ and ends with ‘blinded by the sun.’ You really can’t go wrong.”

His hand moved up her side, stalling just under her breast. “For future reference though, is this your ‘we’re not having sex tonight’ outfit?”

Marisol smiled back at him, bringing her hand to his face. “Sleep is a priority, but if you bring your A-game, I suppose I could be convinced to half-ass some sex.”

“This is the best time in our lives, do you know that?” Paul said, turning serious. “We’re young, we’re romantically in love with each other, we’ve made a third perfect little person to fall in love with…I know that it gets chaotic, but this is such a precious time for us.”

“Stop it. I’ll have sex with you. I already said.”

“Are you happy?” His voice was quietly serious.

“Of course I’m happy.” She curled her hand around his neck, her fingers combing through his hair. She kissed him, but he pulled away after the briefest touch of her lips, searching her eyes in the moonlight.

“It’s the best feeling in the world,” he said, “to see your face light up when I walk in the door. To know that you need me and I can make you happy.”

“I do need you. And you make me very happy.”

Her answers must have satisfied him, because there was no more talking. Only gasps and moans in the dark, the feel of the mattress at her back, the weight of him moving over her, the view of his mouth formed in that little ‘O’ of pleasure.

It was true and frightening how much she needed him and how much her happiness depended on him. It was the scary part of letting yourself love this much, she thought as she lay still beside her husband later, catching her breath.

Their lives weren’t perfect, but whose were? They had each other, and that was more than enough.

She drifted off to sleep.

Something woke her in the middle of the night, some city sound. She shifted under the blankets, feeling the heat of the person next to her. She rolled over and looked at her husband in his most peaceful, vulnerable state. He breathed as though the weight of the world was on anyone’s shoulder but his own. She smiled, kissed his face in the most gentle manner so as not to wake him. She rolled back onto her side and felt an arm wrap around her waist, and she knew she was right where she was meant to be.


	27. Chapter 27

Marisol tapped her pen against the page, considering if there was anything else she should add to her account of the weekend. She’d never remember the names of Paul’s many aunts and uncles and cousins. An entire pub full of dark-haired, round-faced relatives had shown up at their Liverpool wedding reception. She’d been up to her eyebrows in McCartneys. She’d been kissed and hugged and petted and chatted at until her head pounded with the effort of trying to remember their names and understand their accents.

Sitting crosslegged on the bed, she clasped her hands over her head, stretching her back muscles. There was one cousin she’d remember. Paul’s cousin Ted. From the other side of the pub, he’d let his eyes roam down Marisol’s mini-skirted form slower than should be humanly possible. Then he’d given Paul a bawdy grin and two thumbs up.

“My cousin Ted,” Paul had said, with a roll of his eyes. “You don’t really need to meet Ted. Tell you what—you aye gonna run out of freaky cousins of mine in this town anytime soon.”

And he’d led Marisol to a table full of older women and made sure she was safely surrounded by aunties for the rest of the night.

Flipping to the next blank page, Marisol wrote the date at the top and underlined it twice. Already the first of December. Christmas was just around the corner. She needed to get Paul busy opening the rest of those wedding presents downstairs. Her mother would have a cow if she showed up for Christmas and found Marisol behind on her thank you notes.

She closed the journal and slid it under the nightstand beside the bed, out of view. Not the best hiding spot, but Mrs. Kelly knew she was not to enter their bedroom again. There was a new lock on the door and only Paul and Marisol had keys.

It was crazy locking the doors inside your own home, but with the Liverpool trip and Paul’s work in the studio, they hadn’t yet discussed replacing Mrs. Kelly. And that was only one of the things that needed to change around here.

The fans were a constant hassle, badgering her relentlessly when she left the house without Paul. They made up little ditties about her flat California accent. Sometimes they’d try to trip her, and more than once she’d had her clothes pulled and her hair yanked. When she turned her back on them, they stomped their feet, pretending to chase her. Before she’d married Paul, some of the girls had tried to warn her off him by telling her Paul was cheating on her. She hadn’t believed it for a minute, since he was with her every night. Now that they were married, the girls kept at it, trying to plant seeds of doubt in her mind.

But today the sun was peeking out after a spate of cloudy days. Melody was restless, and the dogs nudged her with wet noses and clicked through the house to the front door every time they caught Marisol's eye.

“Okay, you pests, we’ll go the park.” Out came the leashes and the push cart. “We could all use a little sunshine.” She took her time getting Melody into her little red wool coat, mentally gearing up for the dozen or so wretched girls outside the gate. Waiting for her to come outside so they could pounce.

It was a crapshoot, what sort of fans she would encounter when she ventured outside. Sometimes there would be hysterical girls, wearing sweatshirts customized with slogans indicating how positively they’d respond to any amorous move Paul might make towards them.

Sometimes younger girls would thrust letters at Marisol, begging her to give them to Paul. Letters that would say something like:

_My dearest darling delightful Paul!_

_Could you please send me something of yours? Anything a lock of hair a smoked cigarette a thread from your shirt a button from your coat a piece of old toast or a bristle from your toothbrush? I would treasure it forever!_

But the older fans were often the craziest. Like the two pretty brunettes, close to Marisol’s age, who'd approached her at the convenience store last week while she was stocking up on feminine products.

“Are you Marisol?” one of them asked, quivering with excitement.

Caught off guard, Marisol nodded. The girls looked at each other and made high pitched excited noises.

One of them grabbed Marisol’s arm. “Ohhh I knew it was you! You’re so lucky! Tell me what he’s like in bed. Is he sexy? Please say yes! I just know he’s sexy!”

“Oh my god,” Marisol had whispered, replacing the box of tampons and extracting her arm from the girl’s grip. “You have the wrong Marisol,” she muttered, and nearly sprinted from the store.

Sometimes it felt as though she was in fact in some monstrous piece of performance art and one day Paul would take a bow and she’d discover not a single element of her life since he’d walked into it was true.

People recognized her wherever she went now, or they thought they did. She was at the bank one morning and heard a woman in line behind her whisper to her husband, "It's her. I know it it's her. Ask her!"

It made her want to cringe, being suddenly famous for doing nothing more than falling in love and getting married.

After the incident at the store, she started stuffing her long blonde hair under a hat and wearing sunglasses with lenses the size of pizza pans when she went out to do the marketing. Now she understood why celebrities went to such lengths to disguise themselves. It wasn’t an affectation. It was to escape the weirdness. To have a few moments of normalcy.

And then there was her anxiety about the baby. Some fans had the audacity to get in Melody’s face, even reach for her fingers or pinch her cheeks. And always with the cameras out, snapping pictures of her.

When Angela was around, she’d shout at the fans if they so much as looked Melody’s way.

“This is a baby, not a bloody tourist attraction!” Angela would yell.

“Who do you think you are?” a fan might yell back.

“I’m the one who’s reporting you to the police if you don’t sod off!”

“Bugger off yourself then, you’re nobody!”

Angela insisted that Paul needed to know how the fans were treating her, and sometimes Marisol would complain to him. But it only upset him. He’d go outside and rail at the fans, often an entirely different group. The girls would giggle and swoon and fall about and the next day they’d be back again and nothing would change. Paul would end up signing for them and posing for pictures. He’d stomp back inside, in a mood, and medicate himself with the contents of the jar on the mantel.

When Angela wasn’t around, Cookie and Beau were Marisol’s salvation. Bursting out of the gate with two large, protective dogs and a push cart created so much chaos that even the most determined fan took a wary step back.

 

The girls stared at her with baleful eyes as Marisol turned around to lock the gate. As if Marisol should feel guilty for marrying Paul and taking him off the market. These looked like regulars. Marisol was starting to recognize some of their faces.

“He isn’t here,” Marisol said. “He'll be at the studio tonight. That's where he wants you to wait for him.”

“We know he isn’t here,” said a girl with pale blue eyes and curly blonde hair. “We know exactly where he is.”

“You do?” Marisol took the bait. “Where is he then?”

“He’s with his girlfriend Maggie at Ringo’s flat on Montagu.”

Marisol blinked. She hadn’t expected that. Of course it was a lie, but the very thought of Paul with someone else made her sick to her stomach. She managed a derisive chuckle. “Right. Why aren’t you there then?”

“Because it makes him agro. He says it’s the only place he can have some privacy,” said the blonde.

“He goes there to be alone with Maggie,” another girl added. “He takes girls there all the time, whenever he fancies a shag. But mostly Maggie.”

Marisol took a deep breath and decided to try to reason with the girls, instead of getting emotional. That’s what Paul wanted her to do, wasn’t it?

“Look, I don’t believe you. You need to stop harassing me. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how much you try to break us up. Come on…don’t you have anything else to do?”

One of the girls looked her up and down. “Oi. I don’t know what he sees in her, d’you? Listen to the way she talks.”

The girl beside her clucked her tongue. “She looks fatter in person.”

“Yeh. Maggie is so much prettier. Her figure is so much better.”

Marisol wrapped the leashes tighter around her wrist and shoved the pushcart through the crowd, narrowly missing several toes clad in Beatles boots. The girls continued to taunt her.

“I’d be worried if I were you.”

“That kid probably isn’t even his.”

And the final zinger, shouted just before she turned the corner:

“He’d never have married you if you hadn’t gotten yourself knocked up!”

At the entrance to the park, workmen were putting up Christmas lights: stringing them from overhead wires, threading them between lampposts and trees. Come nightfall, the wires would disappear in the darkness and the lights would make everything look festive and bright.

Marisol felt anything but. Today those girls had really gotten to her. She felt like a wounded animal, with her soft underbelly exposed, and those girls were prodding her, finding her weak spot.

When she reached her favorite quiet stretch of lawn on the east side of the park, Marisol dropped the leashes and the dogs gamboled away, sniffing the delicious damp ground. She knew better than to let the girls rattle her. Their goal was to upset her so much that she’d run sobbing back to California. They’d likely say and do anything to get rid of her. But her hands were shaking when she unbuckled Melody from her pushcart.

The grass was cold and damp, so she sat on a bench with a view of the lake where she could track Melody toddling after the dogs. It was quiet and peaceful, the city noises muted inside this oasis of green. Nothing but birdsong and the splashing and skimming of ducks as they landed on the surface of the lake. A buzzard flew toward her from the lake, casting a shadow over the bench, looking like a flying symbol of bad luck.

Those horrid girls. It was like a robbery, every day, where nothing was taken but her peace of mind.

 _Maggie_. That was a name she hadn’t heard before. There couldn’t be any truth to it. She and Paul were blissful, sexually compatible newlyweds, finally together after living apart for years. She had no doubt that he loved her. She could tell by the way he looked at her, and the way he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

Then again, where did he go every afternoon? To Indica, or Robert Fraser’s, or to Tara’s, he would say. He’d invite her along, but she’d predictably say no, because that would mean packing up the baby or leaving her with that awful Mrs. Kelly. Marisol never doubted he was where he said he was…until today, when those awful girls taunted her with the name Maggie.

Where there’s smoke there’s fire, so the expression goes…

The sound of Cookie’s barking reached her ears and Marisol realized with a start that she’d taken her eyes off the baby. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her heart pounding, she jumped off the bench and whipped her head around until she spotted her precious baby. Three feet from the edge of the lake, on all fours, Melody was focused on something in the water. Miraculously, Beau held the end of her coat in his jaws, thwarting her progress. And Cookie circled the two of them, snapping at Beau’s legs and barking, wanting to be part of the action.

Marisol was there in seconds, snatching Melody off the ground. “Oh my god,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes as she held her daughter tight. If she’d let something happen to this baby… She couldn’t even finish that thought. All because she was sitting there whining and moaning over some tart that Paul might or might not be screwing. God knows where he’d find the energy. Marisol sometimes felt like she was on her back more than she was upright.

“Mama?” said Melody, patting her mother’s face.

“You mustn’t go near the water, sweetheart.”

“Mama. Boat.” Melody pointed to the water, where a tiny red sailboat bobbed a few feet from the shore.

“Okay. We’ll get it. But you can’t go near the water by yourself. Always come and get me, okay?”

Holding her daughter on her hip, she shoved aside the weeping fingers of a willow, searching for a stick of the right length. The dogs weaved around her legs. “Good boy, Beau,” Marisol whispered, trailing a hand over the dog’s head. Beau hated water. He’d never get in it himself, and his instinct had told him that the tiny creature who smelled vaguely like Marisol shouldn’t be in the lake either. Thank god for Beau’s canine instincts. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm her nerves. Why had she let those girls get to her this way?

Back at the edge of the lake, she made up a story as they used a long stick to prod the little boat close enough to the shore so they could fetch it. They dropped three pebbles inside the boat - Mommy, Daddy and Melody. They launched the boat again, off to America to see Mimi and Papa, Lucy and Sophie and Auntie Margo.

Marisol stood with a sigh, brushing her hands on her jeans. Blasted Maggie. This unknown, possibly imaginary woman was all she could think about. It was too chilly for the park anyway. All the more reason to pack up her dogs and her child and go home and find Paul.

The curly haired blonde who’d ruined Marisol’s afternoon was gone now, replaced by another half dozen new girls with their hungry eyes and Instamatic cameras. While Marisol fiddled with the lock, the girls crowded around the pushcart, bending over and cooing at Melody, until she lost sight of her baby amid a rainbow of different colored knickers. Marisol was in no mood. “MOVE!” she roared. The girls scattered.

"Oi!" one of them said.

Marisol didn't turn around. She'd already learned from being in England that nothing good came of answering to "Oi!"

"Oi, BITCH!" said the voice, louder. “I want you to die!"

“Get in line,” Marisol said, slamming the gate closed.

The house was eerily quiet. Paul wasn’t back from his afternoon jaunt, or there would be music playing and singing and general calamity. He liked to make his presence known.

Marisol had barely finished putting away the push cart and the leashes when the gate buzzed. “What?” She barked into the speaker.

“Marisol? It’s Kim. We’re in the city, are—“

“Open the bloody gate!” said a deeper voice.

“Kim! Oh my gosh, come in, come in!” Marisol couldn’t get the gate open fast enough.

There was beautiful blonde Kim Moon and her slightly taller husband with the huge chocolate eyes and goofy grin, skipping across the courtyard.

The dogs went after Keith, barking and chasing, and he made a scene of it by raising his outstretched arms and making monster faces and noises at them.

“Don’t mind him,” Kim said, linking arms with Marisol. “Boys will be boys. How are you? How was the wedding?”

“Great, great! Come in, I haven’t seen you in ages. I’ll make some tea.”

“Do you have any perry?” Kim asked.

“Probably not, since I don’t even know what it is.”

“Oh you really must get some. Have you any cider then?”

“Of course.”

They left Keith outside monkeying around with the dogs while Marisol took Kim through the house to the kitchen, where Melody stood near the French door watching two cats stalking a pair of mourning doves.

Kim spent the next few minutes drinking her cider and fawning over Melody. “Mandy is with my mum in the country and I miss her like mad, but we needed some time alone to figure things out.”

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

A fleeting frown crossed Kim's face before she arranged her features into a smile. “It’s fine. We had to leave St. John’s Woods though. We were evicted.”

“Paul said something about that…”

“It's just Keith gets so loud when he’s drunk. It got where we couldn’t even play our music without the cops showing up. Then my loving husband threw a champagne bottle at me and it got lodged in the wall, and the landlord wasn’t amused.”

“WHAT?”

Kim laughed, but her eyes looked tired. “You didn’t hear about that? I thought everyone heard.” She brightened. “Enough about that. Tell me about the wedding!”

“Shouldn’t we let your husband inside?”

“Oh, he’s around back with your wedding present. Let’s have a chat.”

They sat outside on the garden steps, watching Melody chasing the cats. Keith appeared to be busy building something in the very back of the garden. The dogs wandered back and forth, checking for new smells and making sure Keith didn’t transform into monster mode and give chase again. Marisol gave Kim a quick rundown on the wedding, but her mind was elsewhere.

“Kim, were you serious before? When you said Keith threw a champagne bottle at you?”

“Cor yeh. We were having a terrible row. But then he saw the bottle stuck in the wall and…well we both started laughing. He put a frame around it.”

Kim laughed a little at the memory, but Marisol didn’t join in.

“I’m worried about you.”

Kim picked at a thread on her sweater, not meeting Marisol’s eyes. “It’s not worth worrying yourself over. He’s a good man.”

“Has he ever hit you?”

Kim waved a dismissive hand and said, “He hits everyone when he’s drunk.”

Marisol checked to be sure Keith was still busy doing whatever he was doing in the back forty. She picked up Kim’s slender hand and squeezed it. “You don’t have to put up with that. You know if you need to get away from him you can always come here.”

Kim blew out a sigh. “It’s not like I’m trapped or any of that. Besides, when he’s sober he’s the man of my dreams, he really is.” She pulled her hand away and tucked a lock of silky blonde hair behind her ear. “And I can always go home to my mum and dad. Course, he just runs after me. He promises to stop drinking, and I see the man I fell in love with, and I take him back. I know no one will ever love me as much as Keith does.” Her cheerful smile returned. “Enough of all that. Tell me about you and Paul! How’s married life?”

“It’s good. Really good.” Marisol’s thoughts were still scrambled with worry about Kim and with her earlier run in with the fans. “It’s an adjustment though. Mostly because of those girls out front.”

“Tell me about it. One of Keith’s fans was so aggressive with me that he ran her off by pelting her with eggs.”

Marisol made a sound of commiseration. “Some of them try to mess with my head. Today they were telling me Paul has a secret girlfriend. They said he was with her at Ringo’s flat, can you believe that?”

Kim didn’t bat an eye. “Are you going to confront him?”

“Of course not! They’re just trying to get in my head. I’m sure it’s not true!”

“Hmm.”

Marisol looked up sharply. “What do you mean? Why did you say ‘hmmm’ like that?"

“Nothing. I mean…I’m not naive. I know Keith has affairs. Let’s face it, he’s a rock star, he has women throwing themselves at him daily…hourly. To resist all that temptation he’d need the superhuman self control of some medieval saint. And I don’t know about Paul, but Keith is no medieval saint.”

The sun went behind a cloud and Marisol hugged herself against the sudden chill.

“Mama! Want kit kit!” Melody sounded near tears. She looked like a proper little English baby lately with her red, wind-chapped cheeks.

Marisol stood and scooped up her daughter. “Let’s give the cats a break for a bit.” She swayed back and forth in an attempt at distraction.

Distraction arrived in the form of Keith Moon, clapping his hands, motioning for them to join him. Kim jumped to her feet and grabbed his outstretched hand. “Come and look!” She called over her shoulder, as Keith tugged her along. They looked beautiful together, like they could be the bride and groom figures on top of a wedding cake. Marisol trailed them through the garden, watching the way Keith looked at his wife, his face full of adoration. “No one will ever love me as much as Keith does” Kim had said, and you could see it in his eyes how much he doted on her. Enough to go insane with jealousy if another man looked at her?

“Ta da!” Keith grinned his irresistible grin and pulled his wife with him into a large hammock that was now strung between two trees in the very back of the garden. “I’ve built you a honeymoon hammock!” He pushed off the ground and sent the hammock swinging madly. Peals of laughter rang out as Kim snuggled up to her clearly besotted husband.

Marisol couldn’t help smiling at the two of them. “I love it. Paul will love it.”

“Where has that husband of yours buggered off to?” Keith asked as the hammock slowed.

“Um…he’s at Indica…I think.”

“Did he ever tell you about the time I took him to meet a Beach Boy?” Keith stopped swinging and took his arm from around Kim’s shoulder, his face and hands animated as he got into the story. “I’m a huge surf music fan, see, and I went clubbing with Bruce Johnston when he was in town, didn’t I? First night we ran into Lennon and McCartney. Bruce had an acetate of Pet Sounds, pre release. In his suite at the Waldorf we listened straight through twice. Nobody made a sound, did they? Then Lennon and McCartney looked at each other, and without a word they went to the piano and started whispering.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, another bloody Beatles song.”

Marisol was only half listening. She made what she hoped were appropriate sounds and facial gestures, but her mind was all over the place.

“We have to be going love.” Kim nudged her husband.

“Right darling. Off we go.”

The two of them fought their way out of the hammock, giggling.

“Thank you for the hammock. And for putting it up, and trying it out…and for everything.”

Marisol was babbling. She had an itchy, fidgety feeling that she didn’t know what to do with.

“Tank-a,” parroted Melody.

Keith grinned at Melody and then at Marisol. “Lordy do. You really are precious, dear girl. The both of you. Are there more in California like you? Is it some cauldron of delight?”

“No. We’re the only ones.”

“Aren’t we lucky to have you then!”

Keith sauntered out the front gate like the lord of the manor, greeting the fans outside with a cheerful, showbizzy familiarity. “Alright love? Alright girls. Howzit goin’? Alright?”

“Keith! I’m a huge fan of yours, the biggest! I believe in you more than anyone has ever believed in anything! I’m devout!”

“That right? Why are you outside McCartney’s then?”

“Because I missed the bus to yours. It’s serendipity!”

“It’s wha?”

“A happy accident!”

“Right…”

Behind the gate and out of sight of the fans, Kim made a show of rolling her big blue eyes. “Serendipity, my arse. It’s called harrassment.”

“Feel free to take the whole lot of them home with you. Where is home now?”

“We’re out in the country. I’ll ring you and give you our new number. We could go round the shops? Do some Christmas shopping?”

“Please do. I feel like you’re one of the few people who can understand what my life is like.”

Marisol was still holding Melody on her hip, keeping an eye on the dogs making tentative movements toward the open gate and freedom.

"A problem shared is a problem halved," murmured Kim, leaning in for a goodbye hug. “I’m sure your husband is right where he says he is…but if I were you I’d make a surprise visit to Ringo’s flat. Otherwise it’ll drive you batty not knowing.”

The sky was darkening, along with her mood, as Marisol brought the baby and dogs inside the house. All was quiet, except for Mrs. Kelly rattling around in the kitchen. Who knew where Mr. Kelly was. He seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time shining Paul’s many pairs of shoes.

Marisol wandered into the dining room, which they might as well rename the storage room. Every available surface was covered with wedding presents, music magazines and unopened mail.

She took off her jacket and draped it over a chair, her eye catching on a photograph of the Beatles taken during the past summer at a press conference, somewhere in America. They looked tired and so over it.

Even after years in the business, Paul couldn’t seem to resist reading everything he could about the Beatles. Music and fan magazines were scattered all over the house. This article appeared to be written by an American female journalist who had interviewed each of the Beatles in Detroit. Picking up the magazine, she skimmed the article until the reporter came to Paul:

_"It was time to move on to the handsomest Beatle of all, Paul. With a devilish grin he asked me to sit beside him on the table and rub knees. I told him that I could make some extra money by selling my knees to hundreds of girls clustered around Olympia's entrances. He laughed and swore he could sell his for more money than I could get."_

_Honestly._ Paul could be so full of himself. What was it his father had said over the weekend, teasing him about his cockiness? _Oi, listen to you, Son, if you were a bit of chocolate you’d eat yourself up, wouldn’t you?_

And could he be any more of a flirt? They were engaged this summer, while he was galavanting about flirting and rubbing knees with all the journalists.

With a snort of disgust, Marisol tossed the magazine on top of the others. She made a decision. It was time to pay a visit to Ringo's flat.


	28. Chapter 28

The phone was answered on the third ring.

Marisol uttered something that must have been incomprehensible, judging by the long pause from Brian’s secretary.

“Sorry, you said this is Marisol?” Joanne said. “I’m sorry, it’s just we get so many calls from people pretending to be Ringo’s sister or Paul’s cousin. Can you hold the line please?”

There was another pause.

“Hello, this is Wendy, how can I help?”

“Wendy! Hi, it’s Marisol…” She racked her brain, searching for that tidbit of information that she needed, until finally it came to her. “Thank you so much for the wedding gift. The vase is lovely. It’s on our dining room table.” Still in the box, with all the other vases, but nobody needed to know that.

“Make sure that husband of yours keeps it filled with flowers,” Wendy said, her voice friendly.

“Oh yes! Quite,” Marisol said, then wondered when she’d started speaking like a sixty-year-old Englishman. “I mean, it looks beautiful with or without flowers. It's simply lovely. And we don’t have anything else like it.” And now she was babbling.

“Yes, I got the lovely thank you card from the both of you. Is there something I can help you with?”

Marisol took a deep breath and forged ahead. Wendy likely knew Paul's wherabouts at any given moment so the woman would see right through a lie. But Marisol hadn’t come up with anything better in her agitated state.

“Yes, if you don’t mind. Paul asked me to drop something off at Ringo’s flat…on Montagu? And I've somehow misplaced the exact address.”

There was only the slightest hesitation.

“Oh. No problem love. Can you hold?”

There was bit of murmuring and the sound of papers shuffling before Wendy came back on the line and read off the address. “It's 34 Montagu Street, love.”

“Thank you, Wendy.”

_34\. That would be easy to remember. That’s about how old she would be by the time Paul forgave her for this little jaunt._

“No problem, love. We will see you soon at Brian's holiday party.”

 _Which Marisol knew nothing about_. “Right! See you soon!”

Marisol consulted the London A to Z. Or A to “Zed” as the Londoners called it.

Two left turns and a straight shot down Lisson Grove. It couldn’t be much more than a mile or so away.

Leaving Melody in the care of _that woman_ for what would surely be no more than a few minutes, she peeled out of the courtyard in Paul’s Mini. Fans scattered left and right.

The parking gods were with her and Marisol pulled into a choice spot in front of the building. She killed the engine and cased the surroundings. Paul’s DB6 was nowhere around. But it wouldn’t be, would it? He’d park down the street or around the block if he didn’t want to be discovered by his snooping wife.

She felt a little sick to her stomach, leaning over to stare up at the windows, hoping no one was looking out.

What now? Should she march up to the front door and knock? Wait for Ringo to appear, holding his drumsticks, and say to him, “Oh hey, have you seen my cheating husband lately?”

While she was thinking this, a van pulled up and parked behind her. Two men dressed in work clothes got out of the van and went straight into the flat, one of them carrying a tool box.

Well, that settled it. Paul wasn’t here rubbing knees and other parts with Maggie, or any journalist. Not unless they’d broken something having so much wild sex and had to phone a repairman.

She was about to start the engine when the front door opened again. A slight, dark-skinned young man with a halo of black hair stood on the front stoop, wobbling a little as he concentrated on lighting a cigarette. He wore the most amazing short white jacket with beaded fringe and a flowing orange scarf around his neck. He shook out the match, straightened, and looked directly at Marisol.

She startled, dropping the ring of keys. Tearing her eyes away from the dark-eyed young man, she fished around under the seat for the keys, swearing in frustration.

By the time she had them grasped in her hand, the young man was standing on the pavement next to the car, peering in at her.

“Oh shit,” she muttered under her breath.

He motioned for her to roll down the window.

She rolled it down halfway. “Hi there. Hi,” she said with a shaky smile.

“Everything okay?” he asked, in a flat American accent.

“Yes! Yes, I dropped my keys, that’s all.” She jingled the keys.

“Tell your old man to relax and stop hassling me about painting the rooms black.”

“Um…Okay. Right. Will do.”

He patted the roof of the car, straightened, and ambled away down the street. That’s when Marisol noticed he had a guitar strapped to his back.

 _Shit._ Whoever that was, he obviously recognized her, or the car, or both, and Paul was sure to hear about this, one way or another. What a stupid day this had been. She really needed to get herself together and stop letting those wretched girls at the gate send her spinning off on wild tangents. It was embarrassing.

She pulled the choke and pumped the gas pedal and turned the key and…nothing. Shit. Pushing in the choke, she turned the key again, and the strong scent of gasoline wafted into the car. Well hell. Now she’d done it, flooded the carburetor in her haste to leave the scene of the crime. Now she had no choice but to wait until the gasoline drained out. In frustration she pounded her fist on the steering column. The horn sounded and she jumped.

After checking to make sure the man in the fringed jacket hadn’t returned to see her predicament, she got out and raised the bonnet, letting the gasoline fumes dissipate. A pair of middle-aged women were walking towards her, holding large black umbrellas that they used as walking sticks. They looked at her, said something to each other, and looked at her again. The nearest one shook her head and narrowed her eyes, her lips in a thin line. It was sort of the look you’d give the town harlot. If she were in the town center, naked and flaunting herself. Marisol closed the bonnet and got back in the car to wait.

Fifteen minutes later she tried to start the car again. Nothing. What a shambles.

It served her right, really, lurking about trying to catch her husband doing something wrong when she should be home minding their baby, or whatever else it was she was supposed to be doing all day while he ran amok.

With a beleaguered sigh, she grabbed her purse and locked up the car and looked both ways before starting down the pavement. At the corner, she couldn’t remember which direction she’d come from. She’d been in such a dither, checking both sides of the street for Paul’s car, and she’d circled the block a couple of times before finding the address. She took a chance and turned right.

After twenty minutes, Marisol had to admit she had no idea where she was going. Why hadn’t she brought the A to Z? Probably because she hadn’t planned on being than a mile from home. But that was far enough away for her to become irretrievably lost, apparently. The Edwardian and Victorian mansion blocks all looked alike to her. She passed a dozen pubs, their amber lights ever so inviting. Hell's bells. She should have stayed home and gotten sloshed. It would have been so much more productive.

There were betting shops on every corner, men old and young spilling out of them and into the nearest pub. It didn’t seem like the best idea to ask for directions in a betting shop or a pub full of men. What she needed now was a bus. She reached in her purse and felt for her wallet. _Oh dear god. Surely not_. After a frantic examination of the contents of her purse, Marisol remembered where her wallet was. Still tucked inside the diaper bag that she’d taken to the park earlier today. A hundred hours ago. Blazes! Now she couldn’t even phone Angela.

 _Would this afternoon never end?_ There was an off-license on the corner. She’d ask for directions and simply retrace her steps.

The customer in front of her took a crow’s age, balancing his checkbook or something while he chatted with the proprietor about England and the World Cup. Clearly he had nowhere better to be.

The proprietor finally noticed her quiet patience. “Can I help you love?”

“Yes, I seem to be in need of directions.”

“Where are you headed?” The proprietor was busy packing the customer’s massive amount of bottles in a cardboard box.

“I actually need to get to St. John’s Wood, Cavendish Avenue.”

Both men stopped what they were doing and looked at her.

“Going Beatles hunting?” the proprietor said with a smirk.

“Marisol?” the customer said, his eyes wide behind large, dark-rimmed glasses. He whipped the glasses off and tucked them in his coat pocket along with his checkbook.

Marisol blinked at the man in front of her. “James?” she squeaked. She felt like crying with relief. It was James! James from Notting Hill. They'd dated briefly in college, in California, _just after Paul had broken her heart with his philandering ways_ , Marisol noted to herself. Wearing his hair longer now, and with glasses, she’d never have picked James out of a crowd.

She was no longer lost without a car or cash or a friend in London! James would sort her out!

He was frowning at her.

Or would he? Their friendship hadn't exactly ended well. It had come to a screeching halt when Marisol had confided in him that she was having Paul's baby. She'd told James about it that night in London two years ago, the night she’d meant to tell Paul. But she hadn’t told Paul, because he’d moved on, with someone else. So she'd slunk back to California, dropping out of school, lying low with her shameful secret, and James had never told anyone, as far as she knew.

“You're looking well,” James said, bringing her back to the present.

“You too. Having a party?” She gestured at the huge box of bottles.

James kept his gaze focused on her face. “It’s for the office holiday party. Not all for me. Although I did turn into a bit of a lush after you broke my heart. I've managed to sort myself out.”

“Good! I mean, good that you're all sorted.” Marisol winced.

“Right.”

The proprietor cleared his throat. “There's a tube station two blocks down and one over. Turn right at the Indian restaurant.”

“Thank you.” Now there was only the matter of no money.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“Yes!” Marisol said, too quickly. “Oh, yes, that would be lovely. I’ve had car trouble.”

 

“Where to?” James asked, holding open the door to a tiny white Vauxhall.

“I want to go home,” Marisol said with a sigh.

“Where’s home?”

Marisol laughed without humor, tucking herself into the little automobile. “I don’t really know any more.” She settled back into the seat as James stored his box of alcohol in the boot and climbed in behind the wheel.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” James said, edging into traffic. “You’ve bagged a Beatle. Must feel like winning the lottery.”

“I am a lucky girl indeed,” Marisol said, staring straight ahead. “What about you? Finished school? Are you working?”

“I work in Fleet Street. The _Telegraph_.”

“Oh. Congratulations. You’re a journalist. That’s what you wanted to do.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “What I wanted to do was write a novel. Meanwhile, I have bills to pay.”

“So you came back to London after all.”

“My mum has been in bad health. And I didn’t have much luck with California girls stomping all over my heart. Thought I’d try my luck back in merry old England.”

Marisol heaved a loud sigh. “Well I’m sorry about your mum. Is she any better?”

“Yeah. She is. How’s your family?”

“Good, good.”

There was an awkward pause while they waited at a traffic light. James cleared his throat. “So. How is married life?”

Marisol gave him a wary glance. “Are you looking for an exclusive?”

His eyes snapped to her. “I’m a sports reporter. I don’t give a fig who the lead guitarist for some pop group is shagging.”

“He’s the bassist.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Good thing I’m not shagging a footballer then.”

He made a disgusted noise. “Give me some credit, Marisol. I know it’s a zoo out there, but I’m not one of the animals.”

She looked down at her lap. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t know who I can trust.”

The rest of the short drive was silent. As they turned onto Cavendish, Marisol donned her huge sunglasses.

James slowed down as they neared what was clearly Paul’s house, judging by the crowd of girls lurking out front.

“Do you have somewhere to be right now?” she blurted.

“Not particularly…why?”

“I just…” Marisol slunk down in the seat. “Ugh. Can you keep driving? That bitchy little blonde is back and I really can’t face her right now.”

Without a word, James sped up and continued down the street. Just before they reached the park, he pulled to the curb and killed the engine. He turned to her.

“I know you, Marisol. You’re not an attention seeker. I can’t for the life of me understand how you’ve gotten yourself married to someone who thrives on attention.”

“Because I love him,” Marisol immediately responded. “He is the love of my life. When we’re together it’s perfect.”

She stared out the front window, remembering hearing those same words coming from Kim Moon's mouth not so long ago. Her situation was totally different though. Paul didn’t hit her! He didn’t throw champagne bottles at her! It wasn’t his fault the fans made her life so intolerable. Not totally.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said brightly. “Tell me something interesting. I’m sure you’re already writing your first best-selling novel. Tell me the plot.”

“You won’t nick it will you?”

“Of course I will. And I’ll have my husband write a song about it. Don’t you know that in any art you’re allowed to steal anything if you can make it better.” She tugged at her bottom lip, thinking. Thinking what a shame it was that she didn’t want to go home.

“Sounds like a Hemingway quote,” James said.

“Could be. A lot of things are attributed to him that he probably never said.”

A light mist began to fall on the windscreen. Marisol settled back against the seat, listening to James detail his plot.

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, it was a love story of sorts, about a British nurse and war widow trapped in German-occupied Brussels. She works at the hospital by day, but she is also a spy for the resistance. When a British plane crashes in the park, she finds herself protecting an injured pilot who has top-secret orders and a target on his back.

It sounded fascinating, and exactly like something Marisol would read. “I would read the hell out of that story,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “You need to write it.”

“What about you? What do you need to write?”

She sighed. “I have an idea actually. It’s about a girl in the future who flies a spaceship and…” She trailed off, thinking how ridiculous it sounded. “I’m still working it out in my head.”

James made a tutting sound. “I should chastise you for not writing, but I remember what Ernest Hemingway said. As a writer you should not judge. You should understand.”

“I don’t think he said that either.”

A smart rap on the passenger window made her gasp and jerk her head around to look. There standing on the pavement in the rain, at long last, was her husband.

She unlocked the door and Paul flung it open, leaned in and nodded at the driver.

“Hiya James. Alright?” He offered his hand, and Marisol took it, letting him help her out of the car. She opened her mouth to say something to him but he bent down again and looked at James. “Ta, mate. Now get the fuck off my street.”

Marisol followed him to the car, openmouthed. “There's no call to be so…so rude,” she sputtered.

Paul had left the DB6 running in the middle of the street, with the driver’s door open, blocking both lanes. A line of cars queued impatiently on both sides of the street, led by a taxi driver who blew his horn and threw his hands in the air. Paul ignored them. He ignored Marisol. He ignored the cluster of fans when he pulled in the drive after circling the block…except for snapping, “Flash it in me eye!” at a girl who took his picture while he unlocked the gate.

Marisol waited in the drizzle on the front steps for him to lug a sack of mail out of the boot. He didn’t say another word until they were inside the house and the dogs had calmed down. He dropped the sack of mail on top of all the other crap already on the dining room table. Then he turned to her with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed. “What the fuck is going on?”

He looked like a furious judge about to render a harsh sentence on a hardened criminal. Her.

“Listen mister. There was no call to be so terribly rude to James,” Marisol began.

Paul went straight to the point. “What are you playing at, Marisol?” he demanded. “Are you having an affair?”

“With James?” Marisol huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He scowled. “Not that prat. Are you having an affair with Jimi Hendrix?”

She looked at him, lost. “Jimi Hendrix? What the hell, Paul? I’ve never even met…” She gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth. _Oh hell. So that’s who that was outside the flat._

“What’s going on, Mari? Why is my Mini parked outside Ringo’s flat?”

“Because the choke thing, I only pulled it once, and the carburetor…” His eyes narrowed and she stopped talking. _Wait just a minute_ , she realized, pursing her lips. _Why was she groveling, when he was the one who should be sweating under the hot light of her personal investigation room?_

“You know what? That’s a good question.” With her hands on her hips, she mimicked his posture, facing him head on. “How would you even know where the Mini is, unless you were THERE.” _With Maggie_ , she nearly added.

“Of course I was there. We got a call this morning from NEMS that our wedding pictures had arrived. Remember that?”

She didn't. She only remembered being exhausted and wishing she was still in bed. And the baby had tripped and banged her head on the dog bowl and screamed the whole time Paul was on the phone.

"I swung by to fetch them, and Wendy said, ‘oh hello love, are you on the way to meet your bride at Ringo's flat?’ I was sure she’d lost the plot, until I drove by and saw the Mini parked out front.”

Marisol’s heart dropped to her stomach. This was bad. Paul had a perfectly legitimate reason to drive to Ringo’s, and now she had to admit to prowling all over the neighborhood after him. How had this ever seemed like a plausible idea? “And…so…Jimi Hendrix lives there now?”

“Ringo leased the flat to me and I’ve leased it to Jimi, and why the hell is our car there?” He rattled off the details, impatiently, like he was far too busy to deal with this shit today.

“Because it wouldn’t start!”

Paul threw up his hands. “Why were you there in the first place?”

“I was looking for you! Where were you all day?”

“I was with Tara looking at a car for Our Kid.” He tilted his head to one side, his eyebrows squeezed together as if he couldn’t quite puzzle her out. “I told you that this morning.”

“Oh, you mean while the baby was screaming and gate was buzzing and the dogs were barking at the delivery man?”

Marisol was on a roll. He wasn’t off the hook yet, oh no. She shoved the magazine in his direction, the one that had sent her on this afternoon of madness. It was still open to the interview. She stabbed at it with her index finger. “Why were you flirting so blatantly with this journalist?”

His brow crinkled at the question. He barely glanced at the magazine. “Because it's my job. Being charming to journalists is my job.”

“Oh is that what you call being charming? Rubbing your knees all over hers?”

There was a long pause, while Marisol tried to catch her breath and reign herself in. Paul peered down at her, composed and patient.

“This is ludicrous,” he said quietly. “Are you really going on about an interview I did in August?”

There was a shuffling sound from the doorway. They both turned to see Mrs. Kelly clutching a paperback book. She cleared her throat. “The little miss is sleeping like a lamb. I stayed with her until she nodded off.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kelly.” The older woman looked exhausted. It probably wasn’t easy being in Paul’s employ, with the ungodly hours and the fans never letting up and strangers coming and going. Marisol knew the housekeeper never minded watching Melody at nap time, because she would put the baby down and have a kip herself in the rocking chair beside the cot. Their arguing had obviously woken her up. At least this time she hadn’t fallen asleep over Marisol’s journal.

“I’ll be starting dinner now,” said Mrs. Kelly.

“Ta, Mrs. K,” said Paul.

They both waited until they heard the door to the kitchen close.

Marisol looked at Paul, surprised to see him holding the magazine she’d alluded to earlier. He finished reading and dropped it on the table. Instead of being angry, he just looked sad.

“I don’t remember if I rubbed knees with that woman. I don’t remember saying or doing any of that. But who knows. I was so shattered on that tour. I’d been ill, right off the bat in New York. All the anxiety with the over-the-top reaction in America to John’s comments…I was throwing up before shows.” He rubbed both hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in places. “Maybe I did ask a stranger in a room full of people to sit next to me. I was tired and I didn’t want to be there and I missed you.” He looked up. “Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because…” She searched his beautiful hazel eyes, those eyes she loved, looking for guilt or innocence. “Who is Maggie?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He looked baffled for a few seconds, and then surprised, and then he coughed and shook his head before responding. “Where did you hear that name?”

 _So there was something to it_. Her heart dropped to her toes. She pressed the palm of her hand against her forehead, trying to hold back the tears. _Was this the moment her whole world imploded?_

“The fans said you take Maggie to Ringo’s flat,” she croaked. She let her hand fall, watching him carefully, blinking away tears, needing to see his reaction.

His eyes widened. He shook his head. “For fuck’s sake, Marisol. Is that why you were there?”

She nodded, mute.

He made a frustrated growling noise. “Jesus. Of all the…Maggie is someone I dated when you were gone. When I couldn’t have you.”

“What do you mean when I was gone?”

He looked at the ceiling. “When you broke up with me, and I came home, we had a sort of fling. I haven’t seen her for…I don't know… a year or more.” He paused, then clarified, looking her in the eye. “Not since we’ve been back together.”

Marisol nodded. He clearly felt uncomfortable talking about ex lovers, but she had to know. She wrapped her arms around herself, not wanting to ask this question, but needing to know. “If I hadn’t had the baby, do you think you’d still be with her?”

He snorted. “With Maggie? God no.” He stepped closer. “She was a very sweet girl to me when I had a broken heart over you. But it was more of a sexual thing, you know?”

Marisol winced and looked away.

“Sweetheart.” He took her by the shoulders, squeezing them gently. “Am I not doing a good enough job letting you know what you mean to me? Is that it?”

He opened his arms and she leaned against him, sighing as he wrapped her in an embrace. This was what she’d needed all day, to lose herself in his smell, his warmth, his touch. How could she have let herself get into this sorry state, when her husband obviously loved her and wasn’t off shagging his ex. He was buying a car for his brother and picking up wedding photos. God. She was a mess.

“I write songs for you, I can’t keep my hands off you…what is it, love? Do you not trust me?”

“Yes. No. I do,” she mumbled into his neck. She tilted her head back to look at him. “The fans are driving me crazy, Paul. They get in my head.”

His arms dropped from around her. “Christ. What fan told you this shit about Maggie?”

“It was that one with the blonde curly hair and the sort of…the accent…”

He frowned. “Aileen?”

"I don’t frickin’ know her name, Paul. I don’t have a relationship with them like you do.”

His lips tightened. “I’ll have a word with her. Again.”

“I thought you said the fans would move along to EMI when you started working,” she said, sounding a little petulant.

“Yeah.” He stepped back, scratching at his jaw. “They should do. I’ll talk to them.” He lowered his head so he was in her line of sight. “Listen to me. Don’t ever doubt that I know I am with the person I’m meant to be with.”

She nodded, sniffed, rubbed at her nose.

“Are you?” he continued. “With the person you’re meant to be with.”

“Of course.”

He blew out a sigh. “Right. Can we just put paid to all this bollocks?”

“Gladly,” Marisol said, vowing to never go off the deep end again….at least not without first talking to her husband. She watched him fish around in the sack of mail, eventually finding what he was looking for.

He handed her a large padded envelope. “Our wedding pictures.” Then he took her by the arm. “Come upstairs with me. I want to play something for you I’ve been working on.”

She peeked in the envelope as they went upstairs. The first photo was one of their baby, taken in California some time before the wedding. “Awww…I don’t even remember this one. Look at her. We made the prettiest baby in the world. Have you looked through these?”

“Nope. I was waiting for you, so we could look at them together.”

“Oh.” Meanwhile, she was darting around London like a crazy person, trying to find her beloved husband with another woman. She tucked the picture back in the envelope with a sigh.

“It’s just a melody I’ve had for awhile, working title “Marisol”.” He picked up the guitar and sat on the piano bench in the music room, giving her a little wink as she sat on the carpet by his feet. “Let me know if you like it.”

It was a tune she recognized - the song he’d played for the fans on the night they returned home from their wedding. She even recalled hearing him hum it in the bath and sometimes around the house.

A lovely lilting melody, one of the prettiest Marisol had ever heard him play. He played it through on the guitar, humming gently, and then he patted the guitar and began again, singing this time.

_Who knows how long I’ve loved you_

_You know I love you still_

_Will I wait a lonely lifetime?_

_If you want me to I will_

_Love you forever and forever_

_Love you with all my heart_

_Love you whenever we’re together_

_Love you when we’re apart_

Marisol found herself moving closer to him, crawling to him, with tears on her cheeks, and then she was on the bench beside him and wrapping her arms around his neck and he was laughing softly and moving the guitar out of the way.

“I take it that’s a yes,” he said, kissing her salty face.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s too beautiful for this world.”

He laughed. “Now you’re being silly. That's a load of bobbins. You get out of here, you muddy funster."

"What does that even mean?" she said, laughing along with him.

"Ah, you know, it's like on telly when they want to swear but can't because it's a family show. Bobbins is a polite word for bollocks."

She sat back, her eyes fixed on his. “No, really. No bollocks. You amaze me. You should record it just like that, your voice and a guitar, that's enough."

He took the guitar off his lap and propped it against the bench. “Well, I’ve had the melody for a long time, tossing it around, but never the words worthy of the melody.” He shrugged. “I don’t even think it’s right for this LP. Maybe it’s only for you.”

They looked at each other. She brought her lips to his. “I forgive you for everything I imagined you were doing this afternoon,” she said, after they kissed.

He frowned at her. “You have to stop letting the fans get to you like that.”

“It’s not my fault!” she protested, flashing a look at him. “You need to get them under control!”

“All right, all right.” He pulled her close, kissing her hair, and she relaxed against him. “The baby’s still sleeping…” he said, sounding hopeful.

“Yep.”

“We could…”

Marisol nodded. “Mmm. We could.”

With their hands clasped, they moved to the stairs.

 

Thirty minutes later, Paul rolled onto his back with a thud. He reached for a packet of cigarettes. “God. That was amazing. It was like the first time.”

Marisol moaned in agreement. They did have amazing sex.

“Did you really think you were going to find me at Ringo’s flat with another woman? Don’t you think I’ve learned my lesson about cheating?” He lit the cigarette and tossed the lighter on the night table.

“Ssh. Why are you talking.” Marisol rolled over and curled around him.

“Do you actually think I have a girl on the side, Mari, when you and I are at it two, three times a day?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not 17 any more. Jesus. I'm not Superman.”

She chuckled, running her hand over the light hair on his chest. “Oh, but you are,” she whispered, basking in her post-orgasmic glow.

“I'll tell you one thing for nothin. We excel at make up sex.”

“Mm.” Lying there in her husband's arms while the rain sluiced against the windows, feeling him stroke her hair, listening to that voice she loved rumble under her ear. She could be asleep in seconds. If he’d stop talking so much.

“You have to trust me darling. You have to believe in us, and not all the outside commotion.”

 _I didn't think it would be like this,_ she almost said, but she didn't want to go down that road. She just wanted to lie in her husband's arms and forget the rest of this day. When they were together it was perfect. All the rest was…what had he said? Commotion. That she needed to learn to ignore. Because this was her life now, and it was mostly wonderful, and surely she would get used to the parts that weren’t?

Down the hall, Melody gave out a cry. Her “I’m not staying in this cot alone one more minute" cry.

Marisol groaned. "I'm so tired."

"Stay here. I'll get her."

"Don't you have to go to the studio?"

"Right after dinner."

"I'll get up. May as well power through."

But she stayed in bed, watching Paul picking up his clothes and getting dressed. He was whistling something, obviously happy to have resolved this latest domestic crisis. Looking forward to a satisfying night of work, while she... she had no idea what she was going to do tonight actually, until she could finally go to sleep.

He flipped on the radio, his eyebrows shooting up when he recognized the tune that was playing.

Marisol stretched like a starfish. "It's number one you know."

"Hmm?"

“'Eleanor Rigby’, number one in the charts. I bet you're chuffed about that."

"Ah well, if there's a chart, may as well be at the top of it." He looked up. "Do you fancy going out tonight? Meet me at the Scotch? I could come by and fetch you."

Marisol sat up. "What time are you thinking?"

He shrugged. "Two...no later than three?"

"In the morning?"

"Obviously."

She flung herself back on the pillows. "We have a baby now you know."

"Yes I'm aware we have a baby. She's quite lovely. And I have a band. That's what buys the nappies. We work better at night. Besides, no one bothers us after dark and we have the studio all to ourselves. It's ideal really."

He sat on the edge of the bed, putting on socks and shoes.

"I can't go out every night until four a.m, and be up with the baby at eight. Surely you don't expect…"

He turned and looked at her for a long time. “Should I be worried about us?”

"No," she said, shaking her head firmly. "You should not. We are good."

He leaned over and kissed her. "I'll ring you tonight after work."

He went down the hall to the baby's room, whistling merrily, while Marisol lay staring at the ceiling, wondering just what she'd gotten herself into.

 

 

 

[](https://imgur.com/xUnzBvV)


	29. Chapter 29

 

 

         [](https://imgur.com/9OZGdEA)

 

**“Love can consign us to hell or to paradise, but it always takes us somewhere.” — Paulo Coelho**

 

 

While the fans prayed that Marisol would disappear from Paul’s life, the rest of Swinging London couldn’t seem to get enough of the newlyweds. Marisol could have kept a social secretary busy handling the invitations that arrived by phone, letter, even by telegram and messenger.

The Christmas season meant even more invitations to parties, concerts, events, openings, and happenings.

During the first week of December, when Marisol had a rare moment to write in her journal, it was to jot down the people she’d met and the places she’d been. She fell into bed each night too exhausted to write more than scant details. Her journal had turned into a diary of events with a few random observations thrown in.

On Monday afternoon, after a weekend of mothering by day and partying by night, she left the baby in the music room with her daddy and softly closed the door. She stumbled bleary-eyed into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. If only she could get a nap. Her brain would start working again. But Paul was at the piano and she never could sleep unless the house was quiet. She rolled over and stretched her arm down, feeling for her journal tucked under the nightstand. Perhaps she’d read over the events of the weekend and write a little more until she drifted off, music or no music.

 

 _ **Friday** _ \- _Launch party at the Roundhouse for the first issue of the International Times. We heard a new band called Pink Floyd. They had a sort of liquid light show with powerful projectors and slides of colored oils. It looked like the group was bathed in pulsating, mingling color that seemed to change with the sound. Paul was mesmerized. I’ve never smelled so much dope in a public place before._

_**Saturday** \- New club opened on Kingly street close to NEMS offices called the Bag O’ Nails. We met John and Cyn for lunch. An entire galaxy of glittering stars showed up for the opening._

_My hair reeks of cigarette smoke expelled from the lungs of some of the biggest rock ’n’ rollers in England: Brian Jones, Keith Richards, Eric Burden, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page…and a multitude of other musicians and their entourages who circled around our table basking in the glow of a minute or two with Lennon and McCartney._

_Dave Davies of the Kinks walked by and Paul flagged him down. “Oi lad, tell your brother Ray I love his new song.” He began to sing, in case Dave had any doubt which song he meant. “Girl, you really got me going, you got me so I don't know what I'm doing.” Paul raised his bottle in a toast. “Great song. I should have written it.”_

_Dave stared at him flatly for a beat. “Well you didn't, did you. You can't do everything,” he said before stalking off._

_Lennon nearly peed himself laughing._

_Out came Jimi, with his wild hair and colorful gypsy clothes, getting more sound and emotion out of his guitar than you’d have thought possible. He played a 45 minute set: “Foxy Lady,” “Wild Thing,” and “Hey Joe,” and when he’d finished he put his guitar by the speaker, creating feedback, and it resonated long after he’d left the stage._

_We went backstage to meet the band. Paul walked in and said, “Great show” and they looked like they might freak out. Then John walked in behind us and said “That’s grand lads” —high praise from Lennon—and they seemed to forget how to speak._

_John and Cyn came back to the house. The boys were also rendered speechless on the way home, so profoundly moved by the music we’d heard. John and Paul went straight upstairs to the studio and talked and smoked and got high and played loud music while Cyn and I nodded off on opposite ends of the sofa like children waiting for Santa to appear._

_Instead of Santa, Paul appeared, in the wee hours, and woke me by turning on a lamp and staring at me._

_“What is it?” I whispered, trying not to wake Cyn. “What's wrong?”_

_"Your hair," he said, almost reverently. He lifted a lock of my hair and studied it and smiled an amazed, loopy grin. "My god. It's at least six different shades of yellow. It sounds so beautiful."_  
_"Sweetheart," I said, "what are you on? Do you need some coffee?" He looked flushed but happy. I examined his eyes to see if his pupils were doing something odd, although I didn't know what I was supposed to be looking for._  
_“I only need to be close to so much more of the brightest thing in my life,” he mumbled, and he put his head in my lap and curled up and fell straight to sleep, while I sat there wide awake, stroking his hair._

_**Sunday -** We met up with John and Cynthia again to see the Four Tops at the Saville Theatre. Mick Jagger was there. Also Georgie Fame and Donovan. Wonderful show!_

_Backstage later, I was so excited to meet these heroes. Levi Stubbs said to Paul that although black American groups had inspired the Beatles, the inspiration was now flowing the other way. Motown music had become more melodic, poetic, and socially conscious because of the Beatles. “You made your mark on us,” he said. They sparked a joint while Cynthia and I sat in the corner sipping Babycham. They talked about everything from Carl Perkins to Bo Diddley to Chuck Berry to classical music to jazz. Then they got silly on the weed and Cyn and I got bored of listening to them and started our own gossip fest._

_Cyn gets lots of gossip from Pattie, who is always out partying. She said a friend of George’s, his partner in Sibylla’s, leapt to his death from the roof of the West London Studios in Fulham last month. He was 29 years old. Word has it he was on LSD. I asked Paul later if stories like that worry him - Is there a dark side to drugs?? According to Paul, the man was suffering from depression and wanted to check out._

_Of course I worry about Paul, but he says his mum was a nurse and he knows what he’s doing. He says it opens his mind, changes his perceptions, makes him realize what once was a “no” is actually a “yes.” At least he does most of his mind expanding here at home where I can keep my unopened mind and wide open eyes on him._

_We’ve been spending a lot of time with John and Cyn this week. There are two distinct sides to John, I’ve noticed. His vibe can be so aggressive with strangers. Especially when there are other big egos in the room, he’s always coming out with a crass comment or taking the piss. But get him alone and he has an undeniable tender and soft side. Cyn told me about the trunk full of love letters he sent her from all over the world. That’s a side of him the world never sees._

_And he’s very soft-hearted with Paul. They’ll be having one of their rambling discussions about music or modern life or peace or Western logical thought or Zen—when Paul is high his mind jumps from topic to topic like a stone skimming on water. And with a new album in the works, he has a head full of ideas. More often than not, John will grow tired of talking long before Paul, and he’ll sit there, chin in hand, staring into Paul’s eyes, dreamily, almost like a lover. Or maybe he’s asking himself, ‘who the hell is this person?’ He doesn’t correct him, or add to the conversation, he only listens. In these moments when they’re high, and they’re with friends and their guard is down, I watch the way they relate to each other. Paul loves to talk and teach, and John seems ambivalent, happy enough to let his musical partner ramble on and on instead of telling him to shut the flip up. That’s what I mean when I say John has a sweet way with Paul. They’ve been through things, the four of them, that no one else on this earth could begin to understand._

_We came back home from the concert and kicked off our shoes and danced around the house still singing all the Four Tops hits. “I Can’t Help Myself” and “It’s the Same Old Song” and “Baby I Need Your Lovin’.”_

_What a night._

_I am so in love with my husband._

_I am so exhausted._

_**Monday -** The sabre-toothed toddler bit Thisbe the cat today. Melody bites me too, almost daily. Mother says to bite her back. I told her the laws had changed since she was child rearing, and biting a toddler is now inadvisable. She said for me to pretend to be injured and squeal and cry. I said I don’t have to pretend, it hurts like hell. Just ask Thisbe._

_Then Mother said I have more to worry about than baby teeth, because a girl named Cathy who I vaguely remember has written an expose in Cosmopolitan about what I was like in middle school. Mother was just heading to the post office to mail it to me. Apparently I was a book nerd and useless at cooking in Home Ec and nearly failed Biology by refusing to dissect a frog. I also had a very messy bedroom with posters of Paul Newman on the ceiling, and I wrote “Marisol Rose Newman” inside all my schoolbooks. Excellent. I should’ve asked Mother to send along my Paul Newman posters. He was a hottie. Is a hottie._

_We popped in to Dick James Music this afternoon. Paul designed the cover for the fan club record - a psychedelic/art nouveau sleeve that kept him happily whistling and creating all morning. I’m a little jealous - I wish I had that sort of creative outlet. Melody and I colored in an “England By Rail” coloring book full of old travel posters while Paul was busy making lasting art to be cherished by the fan club members for the next fifty years or so._

_We were caught off guard by a crowd waiting for us when we left Dick James and it was a scary few minutes with the baby in Paul’s arms._

_It’s a strange thing, to be in an elevator with your husband and the doors open and people gasp at the sight of you. And then they run at you. It’s so alienating the way I’m treated now. I haven’t done anything personally to be famous for. So few people can relate to my life. Will I ever get used to it?_

 

Marisol looked up to see Paul standing in the doorway, holding the most beautiful little vampire baby she’d ever seen. His shirt was rumpled, his hair was rumpled, and he looked like he’d been rolling around in bed all morning, which is exactly where her thoughts went. She put down her pen, closed the journal and smiled at him.

“Hello gorgeous husband of mine. Whatcha doin’ with that baby?”

His eyes crinkled with the effort to look unaffected. He failed. He pretty much puffed up and then melted when she called him handsome or gorgeous.

“Just messing about in the music room. Fancy a song?”

“I do fancy one, absolutely.”

“Come with me then.”

She grabbed a sweater from the back of a chair. Paul kept it so bloody cold in the music room.

Melody sat on the floor of the studio with a tiny wooden mallet and a toy xylophone, ready to make music with her daddy.

Paul sat at the piano and played a joyous, buoyant tune. As he began to sing, Marisol couldn’t keep the smile from her face. It was a love letter to a suburban scene, with a cast of lovingly described characters. It was if he was seeing it all through new, childlike eyes rather than through the jaded views of someone older. The blue skies, the pretty nurse, the friendly barber, the clean fire engine seemed to spring from the pages of a children’s picture book.

John’s song about Strawberry Field may have spurred Paul to write about Liverpool, but the two songs couldn’t have been more different. John’s was symbolic and abstract, while Paul’s was full of detail and celebration.

“Do you think it’s as good as John’s?” Paul asked as soon he’d finished.

“Yes. It’s completely different, but equally amazing.”

“Which do you think should be the A side and which one the B side?”

“I think there should be two A sides.”

“I want your honest opinion.”

“You’re asking me to choose between apples and oranges. They’re both amazing, perfectly crafted songs, and different from anything you’ve ever done before.”

He seemed to want more, so she gave him more. “It sounds like another memorable pop song, but more. That’s what you and John and the Beatles do. You compose music that starts with something that sounds familiar but always takes the listener somewhere unexpected. You’re never predictable. In almost every song you write, there is a part that is so unusual it makes the listener want to hear it again.”

“Listen to you. My own little music journalist.” He swung his legs around to the other side of the piano bench, facing her. “What were you writing downstairs?”

“Oh that? Just my journal.”

“What do you write about?”

“About my fabulous life.”

Melody had stopped banging on the xylophone and started mouthing the mallet. Marisol reached over and took it away from her.

“Do you—” Paul began, then gave up when his daughter shrieked in protest, burst into tears, and came crawling to him, grief stricken.

“No! Dada. Mine! Mine!” From Paul’s lap, Melody pointed at her mother, tears falling like rain.

“Christ, Mari, what did you do that for?”

“I don’t want her chewing on it. It’ll ruin her teeth. And she could fall on it, or—”

“Who cares about her teeth, you’ve made her feel wretched. You’ve broken her heart.”

“She’s being a drama queen.”

They were both yelling to be heard over the baby’s wails.

“Give me the bloody hammer,” Paul said.

Marisol handed it over.

“Don’t put it in your mouth,” Paul said to Melody, who immediately started chewing on the toy.

“She’s hungry,” Marisol said, blowing out a huffy breath.

“Why don’t you feed her then? I’m trying to write a bloody song with all this wailing going on.”

Marisol narrowed her eyes at her husband but bit back a sharp reply as she lifted the baby from his lap. They were both so tired lately. Sometimes their tempers were short. It was the hours they kept. The hours Paul kept.

“You don’t have to snatch it from her. I can’t take all that wailing. It does me head in.” He turned back around to the piano and started a bluesy bass line with his left hand.

“I didn’t snatch it from her. You can’t negotiate with an eighteen month old. I’m the parent. I won’t allow her to turn into a tiny tyrant.”

“And I won’t allow you to turn into your mother,” he said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear it.

“What did you say?” She moved over to the piano where he had to look at her. “What was that you said?”

He stopped playing and blinked his big brown eyes up at her. “I said you are a wonderful mother, will you please go feed our beautiful baby, and can you make me a cheese toastie while you’re up?”

“I heard what you said.” She gave him her warning frown. “But we’re both tired. We go nonstop.” Sighing, she shifted the baby on her hip. The baby who was at this very moment gnawing on the damn wooden mallet and destroying her teeth. “Please tell me you’ll be home early and we don’t have to go out again tonight.”

Paul looked shocked. “Of course we’ll go out, Mari, the Young Rascals are in town!”

“The who?”

“Not the Who, the Young Rascals. Blue-eyed soul! You love them!”

She sighed again, with weariness, just as Paul began a pounding piano riff.

“I was feelin’ so bad, I asked my family doctor just what I had. I said Doctor, Doctor! Mr. M.D…”

Melody let the mallet fall from her lips so she could grin and wave her arms along to the music her daddy was making.

“Paul,” said Marisol, over his singing. “You are killing me with exhaustion. I’m dead. Are you happy now? Now I’m dead?”

“He said yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yes indeed. All you really need, Is good love! Gimme that good good love…”

She flounced to the door as he continued belting out lyrics and pounding out his favorite Young Rascals song. “All I need is lovin’…”

“Close that window, it’s freezing up here!”

Marisol removed the slobbery mallet from Melody’s mouth again and tossed it into the middle of the room with the xylophone. Predictably, the baby wailed all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen until she was in her high chair with an apple slice gripped in her tiny fist. She let out a shuddering sigh and blinked up at Marisol with Paul’s eyes.

“Your daddy is killing me, you know that? I am quite literally dead with all this running around at all hours. And the blasted window open.” Marisol dropped into a chair and let her head fall onto the table. She closed her eyes. “So tired,” she whispered.

“Appah,” Melody said. “Mama? Appah.”

Marisol cracked open one eye to see her baby holding out the apple slice. “Mmm. You’re a sweet girl. Imma just rest my eyes.”

“Doggy! Appah!”

Marisol’s eyes shot open in time to see Melody rubbing an apple slice on Cookie’s nose before bringing it to her mouth and sucking on it.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” she mumbled. What was happening? Had she just fallen asleep at the kitchen table like a homeless drunk? She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Drooling. Like a sleep deprived homeless drunk.

Melody leaned over the high chair, stretching her arm and the apple slice toward the dog. That spurred Marisol into action. She forced herself up. “No. Nope. Not happening. Cookie! Scram!”

With the dog ambling around the frozen wasteland that was their December back garden, Marisol set to work making her husband a cheese toastie. She would make him the best cheese toastie he’d ever tasted, and he would continue to make art, and the Beatles would make another ground-breaking album, and the world would spin madly on. And maybe she could get some sleep sometime soon.

She wondered briefly why the fans hadn’t pressed the bloody buzzer lately. Then she realized it was because Paul was entertaining them with his impromptu piano concert and the bloody window cracked and they were enraptured. They were such good little girls when Paul was giving them a private concert.

It worked well for him too. Applause junkies need a constant fix. Once you have felt the power of music, once you have discovered that you can touch the hearts and souls of people all over the world, how could you give that magic up?

Even Melody was happy again, kicking her feet against the rung of the high chair and humming as she nibbled her cheese and crackers and sipped her milk. Her head was tilted, her eyes looking up, toward the part of the house where the music was coming from. As if she could visualize her daddy still at the piano, creating the soundtrack of their lives.

Marisol took a spatula from the drawer. “We are pretty lucky, I guess, to live in a house full of music.” She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Even if we’re too exhausted to care how wonderfully Daddy plays.”

“I’m gonna wait ’til the midnight hour, that’s when my love come tumbling down.”

Paul began a new Young Rascals cover song, belting it out from the third floor, making sure she could hear him. How did he have such unlimited energy? She knew the answer. Because he was so enthusiastic about his craft, about creating music, he was filled with positive energy. Simple.

“Dada,” Melody said, with a blissful smile, looking like a miniature besotted fan girl.

“I’m gonna take you, girl, and hold you, and do all the things I told you, in the midnight hour,” Paul bellowed from the top floor.

Down in the basement, it sounded like Mr. and Mrs. Kelly turned up the volume on their telly a few notches.

Marisol turned back to the stove, shaking her head with her own secret smile. So the Young Rascals were in town. And she’d have a table at the front, with London’s beautiful people orbiting around her and her charming husband. They would come home a little wasted and her husband would do all the things he told her. In the midnight hour. And then she could finally surrender to exhaustion in his arms.

The concert came to a close roughly the same time the cheese toastie was ready, grilled to perfection, with added tomatoes to make it even more memorable.

Paul came into the kitchen as she was dishing it onto a plate. She knew it was him by the way the baby gurgled and waved and kicked the bars of her chair.

“I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck…you bet your purdy neck I do,” Paul sang, coming up behind Marisol and lifting her pony tail and kissing the back of her neck to prove he meant every word.

“Mmm.” He looked over her shoulder at the plate on the counter. “I honestly didn’t marry you for your cheese toasties, but I might have done.”

“Dadadada!” Melody crowed, wanting Paul’s attention.

Sometimes Marisol wanted to throttle him. But most of the time she found him irresistible in much the same way those girls did, the ones sitting on the wall across the street shining torches up at their windows. There was never a dull moment around here. But it was a pretty good life, all in all.

 

[](https://imgur.com/gs2reyN)


	30. Chapter 30

[](https://imgur.com/FbCBp5a)

UFO Club London - 1966 poster

 

 

_Friday, December 9_

_The big news is, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly are gone. Paul sent them packing after he discovered Mrs. Kelly had sold a story about us to an Australian women’s magazine. I don’t know how she thought she could get away with that and still be in our employ, but there it is. I wonder how much of this journal ended up in her magazine article?_

_Paul will be at the studio until ten and after that he wants to go round the clubs. I told him we have no baby sitter and he shrugged and said “Ask Angela.” He doesn’t understand. I can’t ask my girlfriends to babysit every night so we can party like he still wants to. He keeps saying we need to hire more live in help and I should be in charge of that because he’s busy making an album. I don’t even know how to go about finding someone I can trust to not spy on us or steal from us or harm our baby. I’d rather stay here with her every night than risk bringing the wrong person into our home._

_Cyn has her mother to help her, and a loyal housekeeper. I wish my mother were here, or my sister. Or Grandma Bellamy. I feel so alone over here sometimes._

 

Marisol snapped the journal shut and tossed it into the open suitcase. December 9. That was the last time she’d written in her journal. That was the night before her life went straight to shit.

 

**_Four days earlier_ **

“How old are you? Are you pretty? Because if you are, you can come to tea.”

Marisol paused in the doorway with a laundry basket perched on a hip. “What are you doing?”

Paul put his hand over the receiver. “She's twelve.” He listened again and laughed. “She just said, “don't you have ugly people to tea?”

“We're not having any strangers to tea, I don't care what they look like.”

“I’ll talk to you later love.” Paul said hung up the phone.

He arched a brow at Marisol. “You seem awfully busy today. I, on the other hand, have loads of free time. I think I’ll go out to the gate and ask the fans who wants to go to bed with me.”

“You aren’t funny. Do you think you’re being funny?”

“My point is, instead of doing everything yourself, why aren’t you looking for a new housekeeper?” He picked up a newspaper and shook it out. “There’s loads of adverts. Here’s one - ‘Senior citizen 65 seeks employment in Haringey area. Still able to clean, light gardening, DIY and anything. I have references. Old soldier, airborne forces.’

An eyebrow shot up. “Airborne forces, Mari. You’d love this bloke.”

“Have you lost your mind? I’m not hiring some old soldier from the classified ads.” She moved into the room, lowering her voice. “Speaking of, what is that man doing in the dining room?”

“Dudley? Oh, he’s a friend of Tara’s, great chap. He’s from the north. I’ve asked him to paint a mural.”

Marisol sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Did you tell him to paint over the wallpaper? The William Morris wallpaper that cost…” She trailed off, having no idea what wallpaper cost. Paul had commissioned his piano painted in psychedelic colors, and that was one thing, but was he planning to turn their entire home into some sort of carnival?

She let the laundry basket bounce on the carpet so she could stand and sigh at her husband with her hands on her hips. Something she’d seen her mother do often enough. A pair of Paul’s boxers fell out, along with her lavender bra.

Hearing the basket drop, Melody peeked over the back of the sofa to see what the racket was. She grinned and wiggled up and down. “Mamama!” Paul reached out a hand, resting it lightly on the baby’s back in case she lost her balance.

“Hi sweetie.” The sight of her baby made Marisol lose some of her steam. Thank god Paul was watching Melody or she wouldn’t have gotten anything done today. Then she remembered the random hippie in the dining room. “Paul. Don’t you think we should have a conversation about it before you invite some stranger in here to paint circus animals on the walls?”

“It’s not circus animals, Mari, it’s tiny woodland creatures…why are you so tense?”

She counted to five before answering. Yes, she was tense, but it would take hours to list all the reasons why. She picked the first one that came to mind. “We have nothing to eat, have you noticed? Mrs. Kelly took care of the marketing, and loads of other things. I need to you to watch the baby while I—”

Paul waved a hand indicating he’d heard enough. “I’ll take care of it. Make a list. I’m going barmy anyway.” He shouted toward the dining room. “Dudley, put down your brush! We’re off to the shops!”

The Beatles were a lot like medieval princelings, Marisol thought, shaking her head as she started a list on the back of a phone bill. Each of the Beatles seemed to maintain a court of people who flattered, amused and served them. Dudley was apparently Paul’s latest courtier, given a small task to perform while he shared his Beatle’s privileged existence. At least Mal was getting a well-deserved break, visiting his wife and kids back in Liverpool. She finished the list, then added Tampax to the bottom and underlined it twice. Not that she needed any. She just wanted to see if Paul would actually buy feminine products.

Paul took the list from her hand and scanned it. He half-smiled/half-smirked. Then he kissed her lips and handed her the baby. “Back in a mo.”

Screams swelled from the street when Paul opened the front door, followed by a car horn and the squeal of brakes. Marisol winced. When Paul was home, the girls would sit on the wall across the street where they could better survey the house. At the first sign of life, they’d scream and dash across, oblivious to anything but Paul. It was a wonder none of them had been run down, because at the sight of Paul they lost their minds.

A gang of girls between 14 and 17 gathered in front of the house every day after school and all day on weekends. Marisol had finally learned to do her errands and dog walking during school hours when there were fewer girls to deal with.

Dog food! She’d forgotten to add dog food to the list! She checked outside. Her husband hadn’t gotten very far. The Aston Martin was half in and half out of the gate, and girls swarmed around the driver’s window. She grabbed a sweater out of the front closet for herself and shoved Melody’s arms into her little red coat.

Paul was in a great mood, joking with one girl that he’d been signing for her for three years.

“Where’s Mrs. Kelly?” someone asked.

“There have been disagreements over the running of the household,” Paul said.

“I’ll clean your house!” a girl offered.

“I’ll just bet you would,” said Paul.

Some of the girls noticed Marisol and Melody and began snapping photographs. Paul handed an autograph book out the window, saw Marisol and smiled. “Hello my lovely. Coming with us?”

“We need dog food,” Marisol said.

“What’s that? Come closer, I can’t hear.”

“Dog food,” she repeated.

“Closer,” Paul said, reaching his arm out the window.

The sea of fans parted. As soon as Marisol was close enough, Paul took hold of her elbow, pulled her down to the window and leaned out and kissed her. Several of the girls groaned in dismay.

Paul ruffled the baby’s hair. “Dog food. Got it. Can you get the gate, love?”

“Wait a minute!” one girl exclaimed as he rolled up the window.

“Wait a minute!” Paul said, mimicking her.

Then he was gone, and it was only Marisol and Melody and the fans. It was as if she and Melody were now invisible, as far as the fans were concerned. They were too swept away by what they’d experienced to remember she existed.

 _“Oh my god! Did you see that shirt he was wearing?_  
_Were you up here last week? When he was wearing the flowered one?_  
_The green one? Oh yes, oh my god!_  
_Was he wearing the Noddy pants?_  
_Yes, and that long checked brown overcoat he always wears!_  
_Did you see the badge he had on? Was that the one Carol gave him?_  
_I thought she gave him those beads…_  
_His hair looked so thick and shiny today!_  
_I know! I wanted to touch it so bad. I said ‘I need some hair’ and I tried to touch it but he said ‘no no no I need it’ and he squeezed my hand!_  
_Oh my god! I could just lap him up!”_

It sounded like they could go on like this for hours. Marisol stepped back inside the gate, but then she saw something that stopped her heart. “Cookie!” she yelled. “Stop!”

The little dog did an about face and hopped up onto the pavement, seconds before a dark sedan whooshed by.

“Cookie! Come here girl!” Marisol’s hand flew to her heart. It was so easy to forget that the dogs could come around from the backyard to the front courtyard and escape out the gate when she was distracted. Beau was beside her, softly panting, protective; but Cookie was a herding dog, the inquisitive one, the one likely to get in trouble.

The girls had stopped their nattering and were staring at her.

“Does your dog always run in the street like that?” one of them asked.

“Sometimes,” Marisol said, finally able to breathe again now that Cookie was back at her side.

“When will Paul come back?”

“I don’t know.”

“What shampoo does he use?”

“Any old shampoo. Vidal Sassoon.”

“His hair smells like almonds,” a girl said, with an audible sigh.

“Some of the George girls fight over him but we are good at sharing Paul,” another girl told her.

“Okay,” Marisol said.

Three more girls rounded the corner and ran up to the gate, and everyone started screaming. Melody tucked her face into Marisol’s neck and brought her hands to her ears.

“Paul was just here!”

“We saw him! At the corner, he waved to me!”

“I touched him, he was right next to me! He looked in my eyes. I was so close I could see a vein in his eye and it gave me a strange feeling I can’t even describe!”

“Oh for the love of god,” Marisol muttered under her breath as she slammed the gate and locked it.

 

Three hours later Paul came home, bearing all the items on the list and a surprise for Marisol - a long-sleeved, sequined red A-line mini dress from BIBA. Very Christmasy. She imagined wearing it for the first time to Brian’s holiday party later in the month.

But Paul had other plans for the dress. Another new club was opening tonight, London’s first psychedelic club, and Paul said they simply must go.

Angela was drafted to babysit and stay over, at the last minute. Bless her, what would she do without her, Marisol wondered, as she donned the sparkly dress and a pair of red patent heels.

An animated group of girls waited at the gate and Paul obliged them for a few minutes until he started to get annoyed. “Can you please not flash for awhile?” he said. “Your bulbs are blinding me.”

An American girl asked him for autographs for her friends and he said “Aw come on love, we have to be somewhere. We’re in a hurry.”

In the melee, Marisol got shoved, tottering unsteadily on her heels, and that made Paul angry. He ended the autograph session and they jumped into a waiting taxi.

A bigger crowd waited outside the UFO Club (pronounced You-foe by those in the know, according to Paul). Mostly an older crowd, they stood on either side of a roped off area, hoping to catch glimpses of their favorite stars arriving. Police and club security were on hand, keeping an aisle clear to the door.

Paul said, “We’re going to run. Take my hand. We’ll blast past them.”

He counted out some bills to the driver and told him how much change he wanted back. That was so like Paul. He would wait for his penny back every morning when he bought his newspaper. He gripped Marisol’s hand, pulling her out the car. She nearly tripped in her heels.

One woman behind the ropes near the door was screaming her head off.

“PAUL! PAUL! SIGN MY THING! SIGN MY THING!”

“Okay, okay,” Paul said. “Stop screaming, will you?”

“Oh, thank you so much for stopping,” the woman said, breathless. “I’m a real big fan of some of your work.”

“ _Some_ of my work?” Paul smirked. “Aw that’s great. How about I sign _some_ of your poster?”

The club was in the basement below a cinema, in a renovated Irish dancehall. Famous faces were everywhere. With Marisol’s hand tucked in the crook of Paul’s arm, they made a circuit of the room, stopping here and there to chat, accepting a glass of Chablis for Marisol and a bottle of ale for Paul.

A Warhol movie played on the stage screen. The music was trippy and a light show splashed color across the crowd.

John and Cynthia were already there, holding court near the stage. John’s hair was still cut short from his film and he’d grown a horseshoe mustache. The old-fashioned round National Health ‘granny glasses’ he continually wore were becoming his trademark.

“Imagine how great it would be to be out of your head here,” John said in greeting, while Cyn and Marisol kissed cheeks.

“Soft Machine is the house band,” Paul said. He held up a psychedelic flyer. “Next week, Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band.”

“Dog doo?” Cynthia repeated, crinkling her nose.

“Dog doo dah,” Paul corrected. He rolled the flyer into a tube and placed it in an inside jacket pocket.

“I’ve been reading a bloody odd book today,” John said. “About this young girl who only wants to help people but she encounters all sorts of psychedelic characters—mystics, bohemians and the like. It’s called _Candy_.”

“What’s called Candy?” Paul asked absently, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.

“The book I’m reading. Are you even listening?”

“Yeah, course I am, go on.”

John continued on about the plot of his newest book obsession, while the others listened politely.

Before long an attractive pair of young women approached them. One of the women touched John’s arm. “So sorry to interrupt, but—”

“But you wanted a foursome,” John interjected.

The woman dropped her hand from John’s arm, reddening. “No, no, it’s just, I overheard what you were talking about, and I’m the author’s daughter.”

John threw back his head and laughed.

Paul’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, love, so sorry. He was only joking about the foursome.”

“Only a boring joke,” John said, still chuckling.

“It’s just we always have people coming up to us asking for photos and things,” Paul explained.

“I understand,” the woman said.

“But the offer is still on the table,” John said, recovering himself.

Cynthia swatted his arm. “Stop it, you.” She held out her hand to the woman. “So nice to meet you.”

Marisol had watched this exchange with wide open eyes like she was at a Wimbledon match. Paul edged her to one side. “Whew,” he said. “John.” He rolled his eyes and they shared an amused look.

Seconds later they were joined by a dark-eyed, intense looking young man not much taller than Marisol.

“Hey mate,” Paul said. “Eric Burdon, my wife Marisol.”

“How are ya?” Eric squinted in her direction. He was squiring a stunning, tall redhead, all cheekbones and no breasts. With her boyish, pixie haircut, huge eyes and spidery long lashes, she was an even more beautiful version of Twiggy. Marisol was sure she’d seen her before, most likely splashed across the pages of fashion magazines, but she couldn't catch the name Eric mumbled.

The reed thin woman gave Marisol a cool once over before aiming a dazzling smile at Paul.

“You know you’re my allowance,” she said to Paul.

“I’m…I beg your… _excuse me_?” Paul said.

“You’re my allowance,” she repeated.

“That’s an odd thing to say,” Paul said, scratching his jaw.

“I think she means free pass.” Marisol clutched Paul’s arm a little tighter, pressing her left breast against the outside of his arm. So he wouldn’t forget he was a breast man.

Paul looked at Marisol. His gaze lingered on the fitted bodice of her red sparkly dress. He hadn't forgotten. “You mean like…?”

She nodded. “You know that thing some people do where you get to have a free pass to sleep with a famous person if you should meet them?”

They both looked at Cheekbones.

“Yes, that’s right. Free pass, if you will. You’re mine.” She beamed at Paul.

Everyone shot a glance at Eric. He drained his bottle of beer and seemed to be looking for a passing waiter.

“Oh he’s cool with it,” said Cheekbones.

“I don’t think he’s cool with it,” said Paul.

“I’m not cool with it,” Marisol said.

“Everyone should get an allowance,” said Cheekbones. “And you're mine.”

“Well. That's very, very nice of you,” Paul said to the woman. “Have you met my wife?”

Cheekbones laughed, all sultry and simpering. Marisol wondered what would happen if she slapped her. “Oh come on,” the woman said to Paul, “don’t you get a free pass?”

“No. No, he doesn’t,” Marisol said. “He’s used them all.” She gulped the remaining wine in her glass and held it up. “Oh, look, darling. It’s empty.”

Cheekbones sidled a little closer to Paul. “You know, a lot of girls would be after somebody like Mick. But not me…”

Paul barked out a laugh. He pointed at Cheekbones. “You know what? Just for that, _you’re_ not getting it.”

“Oi, Egg man!” John shouted, finally noticing the Animal at his elbow. “Go get ‘em, Egg man!”

Eric made a slicing gesture, but he and John were both laughing at their inside joke.

Paul was still chuckling, shaking his head and saying “Mick Fucking Jagger” as Marisol tugged him away, toward the bar.

“Why did John call Eric Burdon Egg man?” Marisol asked.

Sobering, Paul tapped his index finger against his nose three times.

“What the hell does that mean, tapping your nose like that?”

“Is not your business. Don’t be nosy.”

“Oh I see. Egg man is strictly need to know.” Marisol smiled up at him, batting her eyelashes. “Tell me later?”

“I might do, if you’re a very good girl. I might show you.” He threw back his head and laughed at his joke.

At the bar, Paul handed her a glass of wine and picked up a new bottle of beer. “How have we never talked about this? This free pass thing?”

“I've no idea, and we really should.” Marisol smiled angelically. “I’m going to need three please.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One for John, George and Ritchie...actually, let’s make it two for Ringo.”

Paul nearly choked on his beer. “Steady now. I never said I was in favor of it.”

“Oh look, there's one now!” She waved frantically. “George, here we are!”

She watched him cross the room, unable to look away. Being in India must have been a restorative tonic for George Harrison. He wore a stunning orange brocade jacket that set off the glow of his lightly tanned skin. His hair was longer than usual and he now sported a full mustache and beard.

Marisol beamed a smile at him. “Hello Gorgeous George. Or should I say George-ous.” She giggled at her pun.

“Er…George is fine,” George said. His mouth twisted to one side as he peered down at her, as if he was trying to decide whether she was flirting with him or high on something, or both.

“Georgie,” Marisol purred. The two glasses of wine she'd slugged seemed to have gone straight to her head. “You look good. Orange is very good to you.”

“Er…thanks. Your dress is…sparkley.” George tugged at the colorful scarf at his neck, loosening it. His eyes shifted to Paul. He looked over his shoulder as if watching for someone.

“Alright love. You've made your point,” Paul said.

Marisol dialed her smile down a notch. She should have worn a badge tonight that read: Excuse my behavior, I haven’t slept in days.

“I like your beard,” she said to George, ignoring her husband.

“Do you?” George stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Do you think it makes me look older and stronger and more aggressive? Or just lazy?”

Marisol tilted her head, thinking it over. “It makes you look dominant.”

George smiled, seeming to like that answer.

“I thought you said you didn’t like beards.” Paul smirked at her with a look that said he knew exactly what she was playing at. “Where's Pattie?” he asked George.

“She was just here. She's run off to the loo with Mo.”

“Do you and Pattie have an allowance?” Marisol asked.

George scrunched his nose. “You mean like spending money?”

“Yes that's exactly what she meant.” Paul gave Marisol a look.

“That's not what I meant.”

Paul nudged her, sloshing the wine in her glass over the back of her hand.

“Oh here's Pattie now.”

Marisol switched the glass to her left hand and dried her sticky right hand on the back of Paul's bright green wool jacket. Perhaps she'd given him enough grief. It was hardly his fault that skinny model wanted to jump him.

Pattie sashayed over, perfectly put together in the latest fashionable mini and knee high boots. With her cheek kisses and chatter and gossip, Marisol forgot all about flirting with her husband.

They were soon joined by John and Cyn, Ringo and Maureen. Marisol thought how strange it was that in this room full of beautiful and interesting people, the Beatles preferred the company of one another.

Pattie and George had developed an interest in Hinduism while they were in India, and now they couldn’t stop talking about transcendental meditation. It was a way of finding relief from the pressures of the world without relying on drugs, George explained. “All that we’ve experienced in such a short time, all the places we’ve been and all the people we’ve met, there’s nothing that gives me a buzz any more. That’s what I’m looking for, really. Something deeper.”

Paul seemed bemused. Ringo looked bored.

“Tell us more, O Cosmic One,” said John.

The youngest of the Beatles was now becoming their spiritual leader.

“Fame is a good thing in giving you heightened experience,” George continued. “But it’s what you do with that…for me, I just realized you know, fame isn’t the answer. And money is nice, it gives you a bit of freedom, but money isn’t it either. The answer is peace of mind, you know, and happiness.”

Marisol stifled a yawn and hoped no one noticed. John, standing to her right, reached in his pocket and brought out a handful of pills in various shapes and colors and sizes.

He handed one to Marisol. “Take this.”

She took the pill from him and glanced at Paul, who shook his head.

“She doesn’t need that,” Paul said.

“It’s only a Dexie, Macca, let her do what she likes.” John said.

Marisol closed her fist around the pill, deciding to slip it into her purse when no one was looking. It might come in handy later.

The cosmic conversation turned to earthier topics: Prellies and Hamburg, with each Beatle competing to tell the wildest story. Surely John won, when he told of donning an orangutan mask, chasing all the patrons from a club without paying their tabs, and ending up in jail for the night.

"Whatever happened to all those pictures?” George wanted to know.

“When Eppy first took us on, he sent me over to Mersey Beat. I had to run over to Bill Harry and collect all the incriminating evidence,” John explained. “Give me everything!” I shouted to him. He was running around saying “What? What?”

“What incriminating evidence?” asked Cyn.

“Nothing really. Photos from Hamburg of us off our faces, holding up tubes of Prellies, brandishing daggers at Gene Vincent, Macca on the toilet, me in my knickers. The usual.”

“I’ve seen that photo of you in your knickers!” Marisol blurted out.

Everyone looked at her. She might need to monitor how quickly the wine in her glass was disappearing, she realized.

“It’s turned up again recently,” John said. “A fan showed it to me and I said ha ha ha. Then I thought, why did I have no trousers on?”

“Everyone went without their trousers back then,” George said.

“Atrocious laundry facilities,” Paul added.

“Are there pictures of you dressed as an orangutan?” Cyn asked.

“Might be, but you can’t tell it’s me, can you?”

“Is that the animal you’d most like to be?” Pattie asked John.

“Would I what?” He regarded her quizzically.

“I was asked that question in an interview, what animal would you most like to be and why? And I always wondered what the right answer was.”

“What did you say?”

“I said a butterfly. Always in one stage or another of development, waiting to fly.”

“Did you get the job?”

“I did.”

John shrugged. “Must have been the right answer. I’d have said a monkey, that’s the obvious answer. Closest thing to humans. Monkeys can play the piano, use sign language. They even get sent into space.”

“They don’t come back though.” Cyn frowned.

“What about you love?” Paul asked Marisol.

Marisol didn’t hesitate. “I would like to be a pony, in England, owned by a thirteen year old girl.”

The others nodded encouragement, so she continued.

“Because I’d be loved so much and petted, and I’d get ridden a lot and…”

She trailed off, stricken by the way everyone was now staring at her, with their heads tilted, eyes wide, some quizzical, some holding back laughter. John Lennon in particular looked delighted and ready to blast her with a barb that would make her wish she’d never been born.

Paul looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears. He held up a hand to stop whatever was on the tip of John’s tongue.

“No, no. Leave it,” he said to John. “Just let it be. You can’t top that…there are no words.”

Marisol shrugged helplessly, wanting to disappear. “I just like ponies…”

“I’d like to be a cat,” Maureen said. “Cats do whatever they want.”

Bless her. Everyone was staring at Maureen now.

“I’d be an owl,” said Ringo. “I’d be a wise old owl, sitting up high, taking everything in, getting the big picture.”

“The Owl and the Pussycat,” said John, and everyone laughed.

Marisol relaxed again.

The conversation moved on to how hot it had been in Spain, with Cyn using both hands, trying to get across how it felt to wear contacts in the Spanish desert heat. “You have that sort of contact lens boiling in your eye sort of feeling. Hot oranges, maybe is how you could relate. Like warm tangerines…”

“Like two hedgehogs on fire inside your eyes?” Ringo suggested.

“Two dolphins with flamethrowers!” John suggested.

“Perhaps you should switch to Coca Cola now love,” Paul whispered, while everyone else was laughing.

“I’m not drunk! I’m exhausted!” Marisol hissed at him.

The house band took the stage just then, and the rest of the night was a blur of colorfully dressed beautiful people, loud music and incoherent conversations. Marisol spent the next hour edging her husband toward the door. These shoes were killing her toes. Maybe that was a good thing. If she were at all comfortable, she might fall asleep on her feet.

People kept refilling her glass, so that she was pleasantly buzzed on the ride home, snuggling in the back with Paul, kissing and whispering in the dark as they flew along the rain slicked streets. London looked so pretty at night— the way the streets shone in the lamplight after a rain. Which meant always.

She felt warm and flushed, giggling and batting her husband’s wandering hand away. He kept sliding it up her skirt, teasing her, and nibbling her neck, asking her if she’d like to be his pony. They couldn't be loud tonight. Angela was there. Hopefully it would be a quickie. She craved sleep more than sex lately. Hopefully that model fawning over him wouldn't have put Paul in mind of a marathon swinging-from-the-chandeliers sort of night. He was getting pretty frisky in the cab. Maybe she'd give him a blow job when they got home. That always made him happy and ended quickly. She could be asleep in no time.

The taxi stopped in front of their home, where three girls shivered in the dark, softly singing Beatles songs to stay warm.

“Aw come on girls, pack it in. You'll have the neighbors on me arse again,” Paul said.

“Oh Paul, please, can you sign just this one picture, oh please?”

“Not tonight,” said Paul. “You need to wait where we work, not outside the house, can’t you understand?”

An envelope addressed to Paul was wedged between the lock and the gate. Paul handed it to Marisol while he fumbled with the key.

“Go home girls. Go home now,” he said in a stern voice. The gate clanged shut.

Under the Victorian streetlight, while Paul jiggled the key in the front door, Marisol glanced at the envelope in her hand. For some reason, it seemed important to her that she read this letter herself. She unfolded the paper inside and immediately sobered.

 

 _Dearest Darling Paul,_  
_We have your dog. It is in good hands. If you ever want to see your dog again, meet us by the entrance to the zoo at noon on the dot tomorrow. Don’t tell the police or the dog gets it. We will only give the dog to Paul._  
_All our love,_  
_Kay and Betts_

Only one dog greeted them at the door. Beau wagged his tail and nudged her with his cold nose.

Marisol burst into tears.

“What the hell?” Paul said.

“They've taken my girl!” she wailed.

“What?” Paul snatched the letter from her hand and scanned it. “Oh for fuck’s sake. I thought something had happened to the baby.”

Marisol was inconsolable. She woke Angela up with her sobbing.

“What's happened?” Angela asked. She stood in Marisol’s pink chenille robe at the bottom of the stairs, eyes huge with worry in her sleepy pale face. “Has someone died?”

“They've taken my Cookie!”

“What?” she asked again, unable to understand Marisol her through her sobs.

“The fans have one of the dogs,” Paul said wearily.

“How did she get out? I didn’t let them out.”

“No, not your fault. One of us likely let her out the back and she wandered to the front when the gate was opened.”

“Oh no...” Angela gasped.

“It's going to be fine. I'll sort it out in the morning.”

“No! It can't wait until morning!” Marisol wailed. “She's kidnapped, Paul! You have to get her now!”

“Stop acting like it's the end of the bloody world. Are you having your time of the month again already?”

Marisol’s head snapped up. “You! You…” She picked up the nearest inanimate object and heaved it at him. It was an umbrella, which he deftly dodged.

“Oi, lad.” Angela wagged a finger at Paul. “Say that again and I'll lob the whole bloody brolly stand at you.”

Marisol sat on the bottom step and wept into her hands. Now she was her mother, throwing things at her husband. Her husband of three weeks! She was Keith Moon! Paul was lucky there hadn't been a champagne bottle in her hand when he'd made that remark. Or a drumstick. Or a kit of drums!

“C’mon love, I'll get her back in the morning. It's the middle of the night. You don't expect me to run after a bunch of fans in the wee hours of the night.”

She cried even harder.

“You need to find her dog,” Angela said, pointing at the door. “Right now.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Paul snatched up his keys and the letter and slammed out of the house.

Angela sat down beside Marisol, looping her arm around her. "Shouldn't we call the police?"

"God no. Paul has weed here and I don't even know what else."

"He'll sort this," Angela said confidently. "Cookie will be fine. I'll put the kettle on."

“Tea can't fix my life any more!” Marisol wailed. “It’s too far gone!”

“Ssh, ssh, I know. But it's a start.” She squeezed Marisol's shoulder. “You are getting your period, aren't you.”

Marisol looked up and swiped at her eyes. “Et tu, Angela? You think I'm being melodramatic? You have no idea what my life is like now.”

“Well. I think I have some idea…”

“Nobody knows what my life is like,” Marisol moaned.

Angela was silent for a beat, and then she began to sing, loudly and off key, an old African-American spiritual. “Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows my sorrow…”

Marisol sniffed, suddenly seeing her life through Angela's eyes. She had everything, didn't she? The life other girls envied. She lived in a mansion with Prince McCharming and all the latest mod cons. Her bedroom curtains opened with a motor, some of the time. She could afford to hire people to do everything for her. She'd never have to want for anything…except peace of mind. Meanwhile Angela lived in a small flat, running down to put shillings in the meter when her heat ran out, still waiting for her Prince. It must seem to her friend that Marisol was spoiled and ungrateful, falling to pieces for no reason.

“Oh Ange. I can't even tell you what it's like. I live in a hotel with people running in and out that I don't know, and a dozen girls out front night and day trying to get in and have their way with my husband.” Her eyes welled up again. “And now those oversexed brats have taken my sweet Cookie.”

“You're knackered, love. Things will look better in the morning.”

“I hope so. There doesn't seem to be any end in sight. And…and…now I've thrown an umbrella at him!”

“The wally deserved worse for that comment.”

“I know. But Ange…I've turned into my mother!”

“True. That is most distressing.”

“I never thought I'd throw an umbrella at the man who loves me. I'm not even violent.” Marisol sniffed. “Oh Ange. Nobody knows what it's like…”

Angela's eyes danced. “Nobody knows but Jesus…” she sang.

Marisol took a deep breath and attempted to harmonize with her friend.

“Nobody knows the trouble I've seen. Glory, Hallelujah…”

They giggled at how terrible they sounded. “God we’re pitchy. Good thing we have a Plan B,” Marisol said.

“Good thing we're so fit,” Angela said, standing up and holding out her hand.

Marisol wiped her eyes with the back of her arm and took Angela’s hand. Tea might not fix her life now, but tea and a best friend was a damn good start.


	31. Chapter 31

[](https://imgur.com/klBcl88)

 

“The secret to making scones is to not get the oven too hot.”

The over door closed with a bang. “Are you listening?” Angela said.

Marisol’s eyes snapped open. “Sorry…” She lifted her head off the table. “I…sorry, the…what?”

Angela frowned at her. “Why don’t you have a lie down.”

“No, I’m fine, I was just resting my eyes. I can't sleep while my sweet sunshine is out there suffering.”

“Those girls aren’t going to let anything happen to Paul’s dog,” Angela reasoned. “They only want his attention.”

“Ugh. Ange...what am I going to do about those horrid girls?”

Angela pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “Paul needs to fix this. Does he talk to them?”

“Yes! Yes, he tries, and some of the girls are regulars and he reasons with them, but there are new ones every day. A constant flood of pulchritude all hating on me and trying to sleep with my husband.”

“Maybe you should—”

Beau let out a bark seconds before the front door opened. Marisol and Angela were instantly on their feet and heading for the front room.

Cookie burst in, her little body a blur of wagging tail and wriggling energy. Beau greeted her like a long lost littermate, sniffing every inch of her, discovering with his nose where she’d been and what adventures she’d had, who had touched her and what they’d touched before they touched her. She was full of delicious scents and she was home!

“My sweet girl! Come here my sunshine!” Marisol dropped to her knees and Cookie pranced over, her bubblegum pink tongue lolling. Joyful and loving life and none the worse for wear. “What did those horrid girls do to you?”

With a loud, beleaguered sigh, Paul flung his keys on the table by the front door. He stood in front of Marisol with his hands on his hips, his eyes half mast with exhaustion. “Alright?” he said.

“I don’t know, is it?” Marisol said, not looking at him.

Without another word he stomped up the stairs. Seconds later the bedroom door slammed.

“Honey, I’m home,” Angela said. “Mardy bloody git. What’s his problem?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Marisol said, happily ruffling Cookie’s soft fur. “No sleep, the war in Viet Nam, the devaluation of the pound, “Last Train to Clarksville” edged his song off the charts, the press keep saying the Beatles are over, his wife can’t get along with the rest of his harem. I could go on…”

“No need. Why don’t you get some sleep? It’s Saturday, I brought my French textbook, I can stay here and study and wait for the baby to wake up.”

Marisol chewed her lower lip, considering. Cookie was sniffing around by her bed, probably ready to sleep off her mad day out, and Marisol’s bed was beckoning. But this was asking a lot of Angela. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

“Why go back to a cold empty flat when I could sit here on your comfy couch where all the action is?”

"You are welcome to it. You’ll wake me when Melody gets up? I feel like once I lie down I’ll be unconscious for days.”

“If there’s anything I can’t handle I will rouse your lazy arse. Now go. I have to see to the scones.”

“Je t'aime de jours, mon mari,” Marisol said in halting French.

“Je t'aime tous les jours, _mon ami_ ,” Angela corrected.

“Y tambien usted,” said Marisol, blowing a kiss.

 

Marisol crawled into bed beside her husband. He was on the far side of the bed with his back to her, either sound asleep or doing a good job of faking it. His breathing was slow and rhythmic. She snuggled up to his back and snaked an arm around his waist, patting his bare chest.

“I love you,” she whispered against the back of his neck.

He stirred and felt for her hand, threading their fingers together. Finally Marisol surrendered to sleep.

 

Sunlight slanted through a gap in the heavy purple drapes, turning everything in the room a light lavender. She opened her eyes, unsure what had awakened her. Seconds later, she heard a soft tap on the bedroom door. “Wakey wakey,” she heard Angela say softly.

“Wakey wakey mamama,” Melody babbled.

Marisol rubbed her face, coming slowly awake. She rolled her feet onto the floor and stumbled out of bed, swaying a little like she was drunk. The few hours of sleep she managed to get lately only seemed to make her more sleep-deprived. Paul’s Japan Airlines happi coat from the summer tour lay in a black and white puddle on the floor outside the bathroom. She scooped it up and slid her arms inside the giant sleeves.

“Look! It’s Mama!” Angela cooed when the door opened. “Dressed like a geisha!"

Melody was perched on Angela’s hip. She clapped her hands. “Mamama!”

“Mmm. Hi.” Marisol rested her forehead on the edge of the door. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon,” said Angela. “Two things. There’s a lorry driver here with a piano delivery.”

“Third floor, music room.”

“And there’s another man downstairs says he’s Paul’s art dealer. What do I do with him?”

“Okay.”

“Mama! Want mama!” Melody demanded.

"The art dealer?" Angela asked again.

Marisol waved them both away. “I’ll be right down. Bathroom…” She softly closed the door.

 

Several minutes later she opened the bedroom door to find three burly men on the second floor landing, gathered around a piano, loudly planning how to tackle the next flight of stairs.

“Be careful with that. It’s his magic piano.”

The men turned to stare at her. She cinched the happi coat together over her nightgown and eyed the piano. The men had managed to get it to the first landing, but they seemed to be struggling over how to make the turn to the third floor.

A fourth man clamored down the stairs toward them, making enough noise to evoke a sonic impression of an entire NFL squad. “This way lads.”

“Sshh,” Marisol said. “People are sleeping.”

“Oh right, sorry,” the man said, and Marisol realized it was Dudley the painter. “What do you think of it?” he said in a stage whisper.

Dudley and his crew, the same design company who had turned Tara Browne’s AC Cobra into a work of art, had produced the same effect on the piano. The whole exterior was painted in a British fairground style with flashes of yellow, blue, purple, red and orange. The back of the piano featured what looked like a series of lightning bolts in sophisticated color combinations. It looked like a cross between art deco and primitive folk art.

Marisol blinked at the piano again. “It’s…very…it’s joyful. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Down the stairs she moved like a sleepwalker, with one thought on her mind: Please let there be tea. She walked past the open dining room doorway and froze, backtracked, and looked again. A man in a black pin-stripe suit, lavender shirt, colorful pop art scarf and bowler hat was standing there…unwrapping their wedding presents?

“Oh. Can I help you?” Marisol said, pulling the happi coat tighter across her chest and wishing it were longer.

“Oh hello love. I’m Robert Fraser.” He gave her a friendly smile, followed by a wink. “You must be the Mrs.” He finished tearing off the brown wrapping paper and held up a small painting. With a satisfied click of his tongue, he propped it on the table against the silver tea set. “There you are. It’s the latest work by the Belgian surrealist Rene Magritte.”

He glanced at Marisol. “Are you familiar?”

“Yes…we saw some of his paintings in Paris, I think.”

“Indeed. Paul mentioned you stopped by Iolas’ gallery.”

Marisol stepped closer, tilting her head. It was only an apple--a pristine Granny Smith apple, with ‘Au revoir’ written across it--but there was something compelling about it.

“Amazing isn’t it? So vibrant. _Le Jeu de Mourre. The Guessing Game_.”

He picked up the wrapping paper, folding it into a neat square. “Your husband asked me to drop off anything I thought would take his fancy. Tell him I stopped by, won’t you love?”

Marisol nodded, still absorbed in the painting as the strange man let himself out of her home.

The creamy, bergamot scent of Earl Grey hit her before she reached the kitchen. She could almost feel the warmth of the mug in her hands. “In the name of all that is English, give me some of that glorious smell,” she said, pushing open the door.

Angela and Melody sat in the middle of the kitchen floor with two dogs, a very pregnant cat, and a three foot high stuffed doll, complete with a blue felt coat, red yarn hair and a yellow straw hat.

“Where on earth did you get that Madeline doll?” Marisol asked, as she poured herself a fragrant cup of the national beverage.

“Isn’t it tres magnifique?” Angela said. “A couple of fans kept pressing the buzzer so I answered. They only wanted to give this to Melody.”

Marisol arched a brow. “I hope she doesn’t have a string on her back that says “YOUR MOTHER MUST DIE” when you pull it.”

Angela laughed. “It was a mother and daughter. They were French. They seemed nice. I told them Paul would be at the studio around five and to wait for him there.”

“Oh! Tres bien. You got to practice your French!”

“Un petit peu.”

Marisol opened the back door and ushered the dogs outside for their morning constitutional. “What a great book though, do you remember? ‘In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.’ I should get a copy for Melody.”

Hearing her name, Melody looked up and grinned.

“That’s right, that’s what your Grandpa Hemingway says. ‘Don’t spoil children with toys, spoil them with books’!” Marisol took a sip of fragrant tea and sighed with contentment. “Do you have time to go Christmas shopping today? I have a sort of surprise for you.”

“I might could,” said Angela. “I’m keen on surprises.”

The buzzer bleated suddenly, causing Marisol to jump and splash hot tea on the back of her hand. “Bugger. Here we go. Another day in crazy town.”

“Want me to get it?”

“No I don’t. I’m not jumping every time one of those little hellions pushes that bloody buzzer.”

“Bzzzz,” Melody said, letting go of the doll and waving her arms.

“Who’s a clever girl?” Angela cooed.

The buzzer rang again, longer this time.

"Impatient little bugger,” Marisol muttered. "I have a mind to march out there and break someone’s fingers.”

“Would you listen to your Mommy, Mel? Isn’t she in a mard this morning!” Angela whispered.

Melody made a low chuckling sound, as if she understood every secret word.

There was a sharp rap on the front door, followed by the sound of the door opening.

“Macca!” yelled a nasal Scouse voice. “Get up! Get up! The ColoRectal Clinic called! Your results are in! You’re an arsehole!”

The kitchen door burst open.

Marisol faced him with her hands on her hips. “John Lennon! Watch your language!” It was official. She had become her mother.

John came into the kitchen and pocketed a key. The key to her house, evidently. “Right, right. Do you think she’ll be damaged by hearing a swear word? It’s only words.”

He was wearing a black velvet blazer over a pair of pink, purple, blue and red striped trousers and a pink roll neck shirt with a black scarf. Pinned to the knot of the scarf was an orange badge that read “Sword Swallower.”

George Harrison appeared in the doorway behind him, equally mod in a red collared shirt, red velvet trousers and a black vest. “Alright, Marisol?”

“Hi George. You two are up early. It’s barely noon.” And seven random men have seen me in my nightgown already, she nearly added. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’ll have a cup,” George said.

“Have any orange juice?” John said.

“Ohhh. Orange juice is it?” said Angela. “Someone’s gone all Hollywood!”

“The what?” John scoffed at Angela. “It’s bloody orange juice.”

“Language,” Marisol reminded him. She pulled a bottle of orange juice from the fridge and a glass from the cabinet.

John stood over her, peering over the round glasses perched on his hook nose. “I’ve already taught Julian to swear, you know. I send him down to the end of the drive each afternoon to tell the fans ‘Daddy says to fuck off’.”

“John! You are rotten.”

Angela snorted a laugh.

John raised the glass of orange juice and gulped it down. “Where’s Macca?” he said, dragging his sleeve across his mouth.

“He’s sleeping,” said Marisol. “We’ve had a bit of a rough night.”

“Well he needs to be up. We’re meant to be recording the Christmas messages for the pirate radio ships.”

“You wake him then. I’m not doing it. Not after what went down last night.”

John looked between the two of them, shrugged and went off toward the back stairs, singing in a silly voice: “It’s Monday, it’s Monday, it’s washing day, is everybody ‘appy? You betcha life we are…”

George pulled out a chair and folded his long legs under the table. Melody immediately crawled over to him and gripped his trousers to pull herself to her feet. She grinned up at him. “Dada.”

“No, silly,” Marisol said, chuckling.

George laughed and cupped a hand around the back of Melody’s head. “Right band, wrong Beatle.”

“Don’t you hate that?” Angela said, picking up the doll and getting to her feet. “Cet homme n'est pas ton papa,” she said in a little girl voice as she jiggled the Madeline doll in front of her.

Melody gurgled a laugh, clenching a fistful of George’s trousers as she bounced up and down .

George scrunched up his nose. “Papa what?”

“I said, that man is not your daddy. I’m studying French.”

“Ah. Good on ya. Muy bueno,” George said.

Marisol set a mug of tea in front of him. “Was that your stomach growling?”

“I’m starving, me,” George said. “I could murder a bitta eggy bread.” He looked up hopefully from under his fringe of dark hair.

“Would you like some eggy bread, George?”

The sweet grin on his face gave the answer. “Paul says you do the best eggy bread. He’s always prattling on abar it.”

“Eggy bread for one and all, coming up,” Marisol said, turning to the stove. “Then we go Christmas shopping,” she added to Angela.

 

Carnaby Street was a festive winter wonderland with a huge decorated fir tree centerpiece. Dark green garlands festooned with red ribbons, gold glittery stars and strings of lights were draped across the street. Shopkeepers dressed like Dickens characters stood in doorways, surveying the scene. Christmas carols blared from loudspeakers. A pretty teenager dressed like an elf sashayed out of a poster shop to hand Melody her first peppermint candy cane.

“Dada!” Melody said, pointing to a psychedelic poster of the Beatles in the window of the shop, above an array of drug paraphernalia.

The teenager followed Melody’s pointing finger. She looked at Angela, at Marisol, and back to the baby. She gasped. “Cor blimey!” she said, dashing inside the poster shop, presumably to tell the other employees who it was she’d given a candy cane to.

Carnaby Street itself was only a narrow avenue crammed with bicyclists and vespa scooters, but a maze of alleys and mews streets veered off in all directions. At one end were tea shops, bakeries, tobacconists and coffee bars. At the other end were the mod menswear shops featuring hipster trousers in flame-red, lavender and burnt-orange denim, and button-down and tab-collar shirts in peacock green, sky blue and lipstick pink.

Next they went to Knightsbridge, where Marisol told Angela the surprise. She opened her purse, revealing a wad of notes wrapped with a rubber band. “This is from Paul. Since you won’t take any babysitting money, he wants you to have a new outfit. Dress, coat, shoes, knickers, fishnet stockings, the whole nine yards.”

“What? You don’t have to do that! I don’t expect you to buy me anything!”

They were standing in front of Bazaar, Mary Quant’s shop. The windows featured gold and silver a-line mini dresses and short fur coats like the one Pattie Boyd had worn on the day she became Mrs. George Harrison.

“Paul insists.” Marisol took out the wad of notes and pushed it inside Angela’s unzipped handbag. “And you must spend it all. He always asks for his change.”

The door swung open and a stunningly beautiful, elegant young woman stepped out of the shop, clad in a Quant wet-look Macintosh in cherry red with matching hat and boots. A store employee followed her, arms laden with shopping bags. The girl looked at Marisol and Angela and smiled. “How’s it Marisol,” she said with a jaunty wave.

“Hiya Jean,” said Marisol.

“Hi lil Paulie,” the girl said, with a flirty wave at Melody, who peered silently up at the world from her stroller.

“Bugger me,” said Angela, watching the girl tuck her shopping bags and long legs into a waiting black taxi. “Was that…?”

“Jean Shrimpton,” Marisol confirmed.

"Oh my god. She's so pretty in person."

"Yeah. She's pretty everywhere."

“What are we waiting for?” Angela said, as the store employee held open the door and greeted them with a friendly smile.

Mary Quant’s shop was a different world from the tiny Soho boutiques. It was high class: plush carpeting, soft lighting, and cozy sofas. The walls were crammed with racks and the racks were crammed with the latest original designs.

They marveled over a row of Mary Quant’s signature black and white geometric-designed mini dresses, but Angela gravitated to the newest trend: a wide legged trouser suit in silver grey with a lavender silk blouse. Marisol insisted she choose a coat and black chunky heels to match.

“My dad says the mini is a sure sign of wanting to be raped,” Angela said, while they waited for the cashier to ring up their purchases.

“That is an attitude that needs to change,” said Marisol. “It’s the sixties after all.”

Outside the store, a young man on a vespa slowed to a crawl and gawked at them. “You look cold love. I’ll warm you up."

“What?” Angela shouted at him. “I can’t hear you!”

“I said I’ll warm you up!” he repeated, louder.

Angela cupped a hand to her ear. “What’s that? Say again?”

“I’ll warm you up!” the young man said, yelling this time.

All around them, shoppers turned to glare at him. Finally realizing how ridiculous he sounded, he revved the engine and sped away. Angela and Marisol looked at each other and laughed.

Next stop was King’s Road, a long street full of boutiques and antique shops. Through a narrow doorway they entered an antique market with rows and rows of stalls selling everything imaginable. Marisol found a fuchsia feather boa that Donna would get a kick out of, and she bought a fabulous nineteenth-century Emile Galle lamp made with engraved colored glass for her mother. Angela found a couple of blues records she’d been looking for and a basket of luxury scented bath products for her mum. They spent twenty minutes poring through a stall full of children’s books.

“Yes!” Angela shouted, holding up a copy of _Madeline in London_.

Marisol added a copy of _Owls in the Family_ and _Paddington Helps Out_ to the stack.

They could have wandered the stalls for hours, but Melody was restless and they’d missed lunch.

They stopped at Guys and Dolls, a cafe that reminded Marisol of a soda fountain back in the States. There were booths in the back and tables at the front, all covered with red and white checkered table cloths. They sat at a table and ordered sandwiches and soft drinks. Melody sat on Angela’s lap, happily munching a jam buttie.

“What a good little shopper you are,” Angela said, giving Melody a kiss on the top of her soft brown hair. “Here’s to years and years of shopping expeditions with Mummy, spending Daddy’s money on shelves of books.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Marisol raised her bottle of fizzy orange soda.

“I was thinking of turning one of the closets into a sort of reading nook slash library for Melody,” she said. “Adding more shelves, and a comfy chair.”

“That’s a grand idea.”

“She loves books.”

“Wonder where she got that from?”

As if in response, Melody patted the cover of her Paddington book, leaving a strawberry jam fingerprint.

A striking dark-haired young man in a purple velvet blazer strolled past. They both looked up—it was still unusual seeing a man wear purple. He smiled at them.

“Nice day,” Angela said.

“Yes it is, innit?” he answered her. “Hello face,” he said to Marisol.

“Hello, face,” Marisol replied.

“Was that…” Angela blinked, shaking her head. “Did I just tell Keith Richards to have a nice day?”

“Sounded that way to me.”

“Oh my god!” Angela covered her mouth, giggling like a fourteen year old Cavendish fan. “He is hot!”

“He is. You should spend the night more often. I’m positive he saw me in my night gown last week when he was coming out of the bathroom but he didn’t look like he would remember much the next morning.”

“Why did he say ‘hello face’?”

Marisol ducked her head, fidgeting with her napkin. “I don’t know. It’s sort of something you say to someone you see out and about, making the scene, you know.”

“Ha! You’re a scenester! Is everyone you know famous now?”

“Of course not! Don’t be silly!” But as Marisol sipped her drink, she realized that nearly everyone she met when she was out with Paul was famous for one thing or another.

“I would love your life and hate your life in equal measures,” Angela mused.

“That about sums it up,” Marisol agreed.

 

When the taxi pulled up in front of Cavendish, two girls at the gate peered into the car with horror stricken expressions. One of them ran to the buzzer and jabbed it in a frenzy while the other hopped up and down, wringing her hands. By the time Marisol paid the fare and Angela lifted Melody from the taxi, the girls were halfway down the street, running like the devil was chasing them.

Marisol stood in front of the gate to her house with no fans glaring at her, for the very first time. She looked down the street after the running girls.

“That was most peculiar,” she said.

“Strange days indeed,” Angela agreed.

Both Cookie and Beau met them in the front courtyard.

“What are you doing out?”

Beau seemed agitated, taking Marisol’s hand in his mouth and tugging her toward the house. His behavior wasn’t all that unusual, he often mouthed her hand when she’d been gone for hours. The strange thing was that Paul had left the house with the dogs outside. It wasn’t like him to be so irresponsible, especially after what had happened last night.

Juggling her shopping bags, she unlocked the front door just in time to see two girls running down the back stairs, squealing and tripping over each other in their haste.

One of them clutched an armful of what looked like Paul’s clothes. A trail of neon socks and boxers followed her down the stairs. The other girl wore one of Paul's dress shirts over her cotton jacket. It was a 'Mr. Fish' shirt, white with red polka dots. Marisol recognized it because she'd bought it for him, and he loved it. The girl clutched a bulging knapsack, full of who knew what else.

“What the bloody hell?” Marisol yelled. “Come back here, you twats!” She chased the girls into the kitchen, reaching the back door in time to see the last girl swing her leg over the wall and drop into the next door neighbor’s garden, leaving a ladder propped against the high brick wall.

She ran back through the house, past a stunned Angela, and nearly tripped over Cookie. Up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The shuttered door to Paul’s large wardrobe stood open, and his clothes had clearly been picked through. Next to the wardrobe, the clothes hamper had been upended. Marisol’s clothes were strewn around the floor, since Paul’s dirty clothes were what the thieves had been after. Clothes could easily be replaced; what else had they taken?

Fearing the worst, she dashed down the hall to the spare bedroom they used as a home theatre. They stored their photos and photo albums and home movies inside a row of low cabinets along one wall. Just as she feared, the cabinet doors were open and photos were scattered on top.

“Oh no,” she whispered. A noise behind her made her whirl around. A worried looking Angela stood in the doorway with Melody on one hip.

“My wedding pictures are gone,” Marisol croaked. She brought a hand to her mouth, holding back tears. “And some of the home movies…and I don’t see Paul’s new Pentax camera. It still has some pictures from our honeymoon we haven’t developed. Oh my god…”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Do you want me to call the police?”

“No police. There's weed, and...shit, I can't believe this has happened! I just…I need Paul.”

“Everything can be replaced,” Angela said. “I’m sure you still have the negatives of your wedding photos, right?”

“These were the pictures Mal took for us! The negatives were inside the envelope with the photos!”

"Maybe he made copies before he gave them to you?” Angela said, desperate to be helpful.

Marisol sank to the floor, dropped her face in her hands and wept. “Oh my god, Angela. I can’t live like this.”

“I can’t blame you honey.” Angela shook her head sadly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if you bolted.”

Melody looked at her mother for a beat, startled. Then she scrunched up her face and wailed. Angela jiggled her, patting her back. “Shh, shh, it’s okay. Mommy is only sleepy. Are you sleepy too?”

“No! No!” Melody shouted. “No nap!”

“Let’s read one of your new books in your room with the curtains drawn. Off we go.”

In the middle of the floor, Marisol wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked gently as the tears fell. Burglaries were just statistics she heard about on TV or read about in the newspaper. She’d never dreamed it would happen to her safe haven. It was nauseating to think of strangers sifting through her personal belongings. She felt violated, helpless, angry and heart-broken all at once. Her wedding pictures, and Paul’s camera with photos of their honeymoon—these things were irreplaceable. She’d likely be sad about losing them for the rest of her life. If only she hadn’t left to go Christmas shopping. If only Paul hadn’t sacked Mrs. Kelly. She was a nosy old bitty, but she and Mr. Kelly kept the fans from breaking in. Why hadn’t the dogs guarded the house from intruders? Was it because dozens of people came in and out of the house all day long and they were immune to it? The girls had probably broken in somehow, befriended the dogs, and let them outside so they could have free reign to pick through her personal belongings.

Back in the master bedroom, Marisol wiped her eyes and sorrowfully surveyed the mess, trying to sort out what else the girls had taken. Her eyes lingered on the empty night table, where there once sat a lovely old photograph of Paul and his dad that he was especially fond of, taken when Paul was a teenager. Last summer Marisol had it expensively framed in gold for Paul’s birthday. It was gone, along with an ashtray from Key West that had been full of cigarette butts when last she’d looked. She squatted down and swept her fingers under the night table, slid out her journal and clutched it to her chest. At least the brats hadn’t found her journal.

In the bathroom a window was wide open. Paul sometimes cracked it, to let the steam escape after a bath. Was this how the girls had gotten inside?

In the month that she’d lived in London, the fans had spit on her, kicked at her, called her nasty names, scrawled slurs about her on the front of the gate, kidnapped her dog, and now they’d broken into her home and stolen her wedding pictures and who knew what else. This was the breaking point. Enough was enough. Paul wouldn’t be happy about her insisting they leave his beautiful London mansion to slum it in a cottage in Sussex, miles away from his friends and EMI. But that was the way it had to be. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t stay here another day.

She sat on the edge of the bed, tears dripping down her face. Where was Paul? John had said something about pirate ships and Christmas messages. Brian’s secretaries would know. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she reached for the phone.

 

 

[](https://imgur.com/v7QvcBS)

[](https://imgur.com/WKJZisU)


	32. Chapter 32

[](https://imgur.com/kPgcOOz)

Paul stood in the middle of the bedroom, hands in the pockets of his maroon trousers, surveying the mess. For once he seemed to be at a loss for words.

“You think they came in through the bathroom window?” he finally said in disbelief. “Are you sure you didn’t leave a door open, or—“

“You were the last one to leave!” Marisol shot back.

“Alright, alright. Calm down.”

“What? You can’t possibly be telling me calm down!” Her voice sounded shrill to her ears.

He pressed his lips together and turned away from her. “I told you we needed to replace Mr. and Mrs. Kelly.”

“Paul, that is not the issue. We don’t need MORE people running through the house. We need LESS.”

Marisol crossed her arms over her chest, disgusted with the whole situation. Now they were at each other, and the fans had their wish. They’d finally disrupted their lives so much that the newlyweds spent their precious free time arguing instead of rolling around in bed together.

Paul’s somber gaze lingered on the empty night table. The look on his face made her heart soften. She crossed the room and stood in front of him, resting her forehead on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about the picture of you and your dad,” she said. “I know it was important to you.”

Paul’s arms went around her. He pulled her close, a proper deep hug with their hearts pressing together, and it was like an immediate mood stabilizer. Enveloped in his scent, she could almost feel the stress leave her body, replaced by those magical bonding chemicals that coursed through her every time he held her. His hugs were like therapy. It was only when he wasn’t holding her, the other twenty-three and a half hours of the day, when her life went to shit.

“I don’t care about the clothes,” Paul was saying, his voice rumbling in her ear. “They can keep the clothes. It’s the pictures gone that makes this such bollocks.”

Marisol nodded against his chest.

“I’ll talk to the girls and let them know how unhappy I am. I think I can get the pictures and camera back. We’ll need to hire a live in housekeeper again, straightaway. I’ll see if Brian can find someone trustworthy.” His arms tightened around her. “It will be all right love. You’ll see.”

Leaning back, she tilted her head to look at him. “Do you mean you think you’ll get the pictures back and we’ll hire a housekeeper and everything will be right as rain again?”

An uncertainty crept into his expression. “These last few days without the Kellys have been a shambles. Don’t you think having help would be a good thing?” He said the words tentatively now, as if testing the idea.

They stared at each other across a ringing silence. His arms fell away. “What? What is that look on your face?”

“You just don’t get it.” She shook her head sadly. “Paul, I can’t live this way. I feel violated. I’m scared to walk out the front door alone. I have no privacy. We pulled the curtains closed on all the front rooms when I moved in last month, are we going to keep them closed for the next thirty years? Is this how you want to raise our daughter?”

He took a step back, his expression going from puzzled to thunderous. “Well fuck me. Anything else about me you’re unhappy with?”

“I’m not…this isn’t about you, or about you and me…not at all.”

She took a step closer to him, worried that she’d said too much, needing to feel his arms around her again.

He took another step back, narrowing his eyes. The room darkened as a cloud moved across the sun, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. In the chilly silence, she could almost picture a tumbleweed rolling across the room.

“Please don’t make this a personal attack, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” She clasped her hands in front of her, pleading. “I’m not unhappy with you. I love you. I’m unhappy with the way we’re living. I mean… you can’t be…are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” He flicked his eyes to the ceiling, then back at her. “Am I happy?” he said again, louder.

“Ssh! The baby is finally asleep!”

“For fuck’s sake, Marisol,” he continued, not bothering to lower his voice. “I live in a state of permanent wonderment, that someone from a pretty basic and humble background could suddenly find his life going “whoosh” in this completely extraordinary way. That feeling never leaves me, it’s always beneath the surface of everything I do. I never forget what it was like growing up without money. And now I have money, and a beautiful wife I’m in love with, and a perfect baby, why wouldn’t I be happy?”

With his hands back in his pockets, he stared at the floor, chewing his lip, as if considering his next words. Then he looked directly in her eyes.

“You don’t know what it’s like, growing up without a lot of options. Maybe you’re a bit spoiled. Maybe that’s why you’re not happy, when we have everything we could possibly want.”

His words didn’t register for a few seconds, and then a cold knot formed in her stomach. The last thing she’d expected was for Paul to lash out at her. This conversation was going from bad to worse.

“I never said I wasn’t happy with you. Please don’t make this about us. It isn’t about _us_.” She reached for his hand, but he pretended not to notice. “Let’s get out of here,” she pleaded. “Let’s go to Sussex and stay for a while.”

“We can’t bloody live in your grandmother’s house, Marisol. It’s out of the question. There isn’t a gate or a wall or any privacy whatsoever, and once people found out I was there they could walk right up to the door.” His voice was laced with exasperation.

“We just need to get out of here for a while, maybe until the fan situation dies down,” she persisted. “We could look for a place in the countryside, a house close to the other three, a place that isn’t on the bus line.”

“Are you having me on? I haven’t got time to look for a bloody house right now! I’m in the middle of a bloody album, for Christ’s sake.”

“I know. I know the timing isn’t the best. That’s why we could go to my grandmother’s house until we found something more secure. I could start looking, I could spend all my time looking.”

She reached up and held his face in her hands. “Sweetheart, it’s hard enough adjusting to marriage and a baby. In all the chaos I’m afraid we’re going to lose us. No one knew we were there before, and it was perfect. Remember how happy we were there?”

She leaned in to kiss him but he pulled back. She felt like she’d been slapped. Stunned, she let her hands fall away. “At least I thought we were happy...”

“This is where we live. You knew that before we married. Our life is in London.” A lorry clattered down the street, rattling the window panes, and he stared outside for a beat before looking back at her. “London is the cultural center of the world right now. People are doing, and creating, and thinking things. I didn’t go to uni like you, because I was working from the age of sixteen. Now I’m meeting creative people and learning new things every day, and you want me to leave?”

“Forty-five minutes away, Paul. That’s all I’m asking.” The lump in her throat felt so big it was hard to swallow. “I don’t feel safe here. I can’t. I’m not staying here.” She gulped back a sob. How had it come to this?

They stood staring at each other, as a chill silence surrounded them.

“Seriously, Marisol?” Paul said, stressing the word seriously. As in _seriously, why can’t you be happy? Seriously you’re making me deal with this when I’m trying to create art for the world? Seriously am I not enough for you?_

“Please come with me to Sussex,” she begged.

After what felt like an eternity, he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe it’s easier to let you leave right now. While I’m still mad.”

“ _Mad?_ Why are you _mad_?”

He threw up his hands. “Because you’re threatening to leave me!”

“I don’t want to leave you! I want you with me! My dog was kidnapped and we’ve just been robbed, how can you expect me to stay here?”

“And neither of those things would have happened if I hadn’t sacked the Kellys. I’m happy to hire a new live-in couple but you won’t even listen to my suggestions.”

They were going round and round, neither of them giving an inch.

“London is our home, Marisol,” he added quietly and firmly. “If you want to leave then you’re going without me.”

Her breath seemed to solidify in her throat as her eyes filled with tears.

He looked away.

“I guess I need to pack some things then,” she said, hoping he’d stop her.

That was when he turned and looked at her, his eyes kind and very, very sad. He kissed her cheek, his skin rough, his lips quick. “I had so much hope for us,” he whispered in her ear.

Marisol sobbed into her hands. She felt like she was in free fall. She knew he loved her. If only he would touch her again, if he would hold her, they could work this out. She’d never wanted to leave him, not for a minute, but she couldn’t live here. Why couldn’t he understand? How could he let her walk away?

When she looked up, he was no longer in the room. Soon she heard the sound of a piano from the studio— a doleful, melancholy tune in a minor key that made her feel chilled to the core.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her legs shaking, her heart hurting so much it felt like she was having a heart attack at twenty-one. How had it come to this? When did everything become so out of control? Was Paul really about to let her walk out of here with the baby, after all they’d been through the past three years? Maybe he was fed up with her constant complaining about the fans, about being tired, about the hours he kept. Maybe he was glad to be rid of her for a time.

She wanted to talk to Donna, or Angela…but Kim was the one person she knew who would understand what she was going through. She would call Kim, first thing in the morning…when she woke up alone, for the first time in a very long time. The thought of it brought on a new spate of tears. The melancholy music from upstairs wasn’t helping any. She wanted to scream and clamp her hands over her ears.

Instead, she dragged her sleeve across her runny nose, sucked in a ragged breath and trudged to the cupboard where she kept her suitcase.

 

An hour later, Paul was still in the music room, sitting at the piano, his back bent, his face down near the keys, eyes shut, lips curled in concentration.

Marisol walked over to him, holding their bleary-eyed daughter, just roused from her nap.

“Paul,” she said faintly.

His hands stilled.

“We’re going, before it gets too dark.”

His shoulders heaved. She studied his profile, looking for a sign that he’d changed his mind, that he’d run away with them to Sussex. A muscle quivered at his jaw. Pronounced shadows under his eyes made him look older than his twenty-four years. His hands on his knees were curled into fists.

“I rang Mal,” he said, his voice husky and low, as if he was trying to be quiet and calm in front of the baby. “He’ll be here shortly to take you. I don’t want you behind the wheel when you’re upset.”

“Won't you come with us?” Marisol asked again, practically begging this time. Her arms tightened around the baby as she tried to keep herself from trembling. He didn’t look at either of them.

“This is our home, love, minutes away from where I work. You're my wife. This is where you belong.”

She leaned over and placed a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek, her heart breaking. “I love you. You know where to find us.”

A look of tired sadness passed over his features. “Au revoir, Marisol,” he said, without looking up.

The melancholy piano music started up again before she reached the door.

“Da da?” Melody said questioningly, and Marisol gulped back a sob as tears again filled her eyes.


	33. Chapter 33

[ ](https://imgur.com/R3evEHI)

 

 

“Now girls. I’m not saying it’s any of the three of you. But I think you know who did it.”

Paul stood on the second step, so that he towered over the three anxious girls. Glowering like a grim schoolmaster, he examined each of them in turn. Not one of them would meet his eyes.

The girls exchanged nervous glances.

“Are you going to call the police?” Little Jo asked.

He hesitated, mostly for effect, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets. “Well now, that’s certainly an option, innit? Whoever did it was bound to have left fingerprints everywhere.”

Jackie bounced from one foot to the other, making him wonder if she needed to use the loo. She glanced at Paul, then quickly averted her eyes.

“What if we found out who it was and tried to get some of your stuff back?” Little Jo suggested.

Paul smiled, without teeth. He hoped it looked friendly enough. “If you could do that, there wouldn’t be a reason to involve the police I suppose.”

He paused, making his expression stern again so they knew how serious he was. That part wasn’t difficult. The little twats had nearly wrecked his marriage, for fuck’s sake. His new bride had done a runner, in tears, taking the baby with her.

“I don’t give a fig about the clothes. You can…” He cleared his throat. “ _They_ can keep the clothes. But the camera…and my photographs and movies…those things have sentimental value. If you can get them back…from whoever did this…I’d be most grateful.”

The girls nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

He looked at each of them in turn again, settling on Little Jo, the one with freckles and the overglossed lips. She seemed to be the leader of the pack.

“The thing is, I can’t figure out how the girls got in.”

“Were any of the windows open?” Little Jo suggested helpfully.

“None they could reach.” He hopped down the steps and walked to the front of the house where the pavement was cut out in front of the basement windows. He jumped down in the recess and checked the windows. Locked up tight. He brushed off his hands and made to leap to the level of the pavement, missed and banged his knee. “Fucking hell!” he muttered, rubbing his knee.

The girls tittered, turning their faces away. He had a mind to toss the lot of them out on their ears and set the cops after them. No, fuck that. He didn’t need the hassle.

“What about the bathroom window on the second floor,” Betts said, then reddened when the others glared at her. “I mean…that’s only a guess…”

“How would they reach it?”

Silence.

“C’mon girls. I’m sure you must have heard something.”

“Um. Maybe a ladder?” Little Jo said. “If you have one.”

Paul shook his head. “We don’t…”

“Yes you do,” said Betts. “Don’t you even know you have a ladder? It’s around the side of the house!”

“You daft cow,” Jackie hissed, shaking her head.

“Show me.” Paul started walking to the right of the house and the girls went to the left.

“This way,” Betts said, calling him back.

Oddly enough, there was an extension ladder lying along the side of the house that Paul had never seen before. Mr. Kelly must have left it out. He made a mental note to have Mal or someone move it to the garage.

“Which window do you suppose it was again?”

He followed the girls to the back of the house and stared up. “I don’t see how the ladder would reach.”

“You’d have to put it at the top of those stairs,” Betts explained.

Paul blew out a sigh. “It’s a wonder you lot didn’t break your bloody necks.”

The girls shuffled their feet.

He frowned at them. “That would have been nice, wouldn’t it, to have come home to a big bloody mess in the back garden? Girls shouldn’t be up on ladders.”

“That’s a chauvinistic thing to say!” Little Jo protested.

Ignoring her, he said, “So that’s how they did it, eh? Guess we better keep that window closed.”

“You should do,” said Betts. She pointed at the back of the garden. “Some of the girls take a cut through off Circus Road and watch you on the toilet from that tree back there.”

Paul’s head jerked up. “Show me.”

He followed Betts to the back of the garden, while the other two trailed behind them, whispering audibly.

“Cor. What a blabbermouth. What next? Is she going to tell him how we can hear them doing the nasty at night sometimes up in the music room?”

“Sssh!” Betts hissed over her shoulder.

At the back of the garden, Betts pointed to a tree on the other side of the wall, with low hanging branches that provided an excellent view of the back of the house, including the second floor bathroom.

Paul laughed. Then he looked over the wall and saw an upturned flower pot, just big enough for someone to stand on, surrounded by a litter of cigarette butts, chip packages and soda bottles. He instantly sobered. “For fuck’s sake,” he said, rubbing his hand over his face. “You girls are driving me out of my bloody mind. I have no privacy. You have to stop this,” he said, his voice stern.

When he turned around, Betts was inches away. This girl had no sense of personal space. The other two girls lowered their eyes guiltily.

“Let’s go. I’ve seen quite enough.” He stalked through the overgrown garden, head down hands in his pockets. The three girls struggled to keep up.

“And look. Do try to get my photos and camera back, would you?”

“We'll try,” Little Jo said. “I promise.”

When they reached the front gate, he gave them another steely look.

“And I want you to stop harassing my wife.”

“We’re not the ones doing that,” Little Jo finally said.

“Whoever it is, it needs to stop. Writing nasty things about her on the bloody gate, I mean c’mon. Do you think I’m going to read that and say, ‘Hey, you’re right. She is kind of a bitch. I think I’ll marry you instead’?”

The girls looked at each other and giggled nervously. Paul didn’t smile back.

“We don't like her,” Little Jo said, sadly shaking her head.

“I like her just fine, isn't that what counts?”

“She's a gold digger,” Jackie said.

“How do you reckon that?”

“She tricked you into marrying her.”

“You've got it all wrong. I'm exactly where I want to be right now, married to the girl I want to be with. You lot need to respect that.” He paused, giving them each a long, serious look.

The girls stood there, shuffling their feet, and it made him want to pull his hair out, the realization that he wasn’t getting through to them. He rubbed at his face, exasperated. “Look. I need you three to do something for me. I’m asking you as a friend.”

“We’ll try to get the photos back,” Jackie said.

“Not just that,” Paul said. “I need you to stop making my lady's life miserable. Because I’m the one who has to deal with all the tears and drama and shit, can’t you understand? It’s driving me crazy.”

“It’s not always us, Paul,” said Little Jo.

“Yes, right, I’m sure it’s not, but you girls have been around a while. I’ve been signing for you for two years!”

“Twenty-six months,” Little Jo corrected him.

“Right. The others look up to you. You can set the tone with the others.”

“You need to tell Claire and that lot,” Jackie muttered.

“Fine. Yes, I will. But I’m asking the three of you, as a friend, to stop making my life a living nightmare.”

The girls averted their eyes, visibly upset.

“Otherwise I’m going to have to stop signing for people and posing for pictures altogether, and hire a bloody security guard to stand out here night and day, and none of us want that, do we?”

The three of them shook their heads.

Paul opened the gate and ushered them out.

“She doesn’t have to act so haughty you know,” said Little Jo on her way out.

“She doesn’t act haughty,” Paul said.

“She’s always clinging on to you,” Betts complained.

“Wouldn’t you, if you were in a foreign country and people were spitting on you and yanking your hair?” Paul said.

Betts blinked at him, near tears.

Well hell. Hadn’t he seen enough tears this week? He never enjoyed seeing anyone cry, it made him horribly uncomfortable. But seeing Marisol cry was like a punch to his gut and made him feel like an utter failure. Which meant he’d been feeling like a failure nearly every bloody day, because the tears fell like rain lately.

“Go home girls. Do the right thing and stop lying to yourselves.” He swung the gate closed on their breathless, red faces.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They never listened. It was like talking to a brick wall. Because there they were, still waiting in front of his house at half past midnight. The three girls from earlier this afternoon, with three others he vaguely recognized.

He felt a certain sort of weariness as he pulled into the drive, one so heavy and distinct that the Germans probably had a word for it.

Shit. Buggery mother… he really wasn’t in the mood for this. And it was raining, turning to sleet. Naturally.

He opened the car door and steeled himself for the onslaught. A half dozen girls gathered around him, under their umbrellas, giggling and swooning. They didn’t seem to care what his mood was or what he said to them, just the fact that their idol had magically appeared after hours away sent them into spasms of bliss.

 

“Paul, can you sign this for me?” A slender red-haired girl in a bright green short coat waved a picture at him. She wore sheer stockings and kitten heels in the cold rain. Her shoes looked soaked. She must be freezing. He should invite the lot of them inside to warm up. That would be something.

Paul took the picture from her, ducking under her umbrella as he examined it. “This was taken last week. I’ve signed for you every day this week.”

The girl shrugged and stuck out her lower lip. “I fancy you most of all the Beatles.”

It was a picture of him with Marisol as they were getting into a taxi on their way to a night out. Marisol had looked stunning that night, in a tight aqua knit dress that matched the color of her eyes. She was holding his arm and gazing up at him adoringly in the midst of a blinding sea of clattering cameras. He must have said something mildly amusing. He never stopped trying to impress his bride with his spectacular wit and charm.

He felt an impulse to get back in the car and drive to bloody Sussex, to bury his face in the blonde hair that cascaded from her perfect head and tumbled over her shoulders. It would smell of sunshine, and warm sleepy girl. He felt his crotch stir, and begged it not to make spectacle of itself. He tried to think about when his dog died. Better yet, he thought about how they’d argued yesterday afternoon. The things she’d said to him and the things he had said to her, all the while trying not to sound hurt or bewildered, both of which he was.

This picture though. God, Marisol. She was Life and Love and Beauty. She was the Sun, and all the flowers in the Home Counties turned toward her for warmth. Her breasts, splendidly round with those eager, ripe pink nipples, suddenly flashed through his mind. Paul sighed and flipped the photo against his open palm. “Can I keep this?”

“Yes. All right. I can make another copy,” the girl said, brightening. “I can show you some more of the photos I’ve taken if you’d like.”

“That’s all right.” He tucked the photo safely into an inside coat pocket.

“Where is she, anyway?” one of the girls asked. “Has she gone back to America?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Her name is Marisol, and no, she hasn’t gone back to America.”

“Did you get a divorce?”

“Time for you to go home, girls.”

Little Jo edged to the front of the pack. “Paul! Paul! Surprise!” She looked giddy as she held up a navy rucksack.

“Yes?” he said, trying to sound patient. “What is it?”

“We got your camera back, and the movies, and most of the pictures—”

Paul grabbed the rucksack, unzipped it and pulled out his Pentax. He stared at the back of the camera. “Where is the bloody film?”

Little Jo blanched. “I don’t…there wasn’t…” She looked to the others for help.

“We don’t know about the film, Paul,” Jackie cut in. “We did the best we could…”

“Are the wedding photos all here?” he said, impatiently.

“Yes…” Little Jo said hesitantly.

“All of them?”

“Enough of them…”

He sighed and stuffed the camera into the bag, being careful not to scratch the gold framed picture of his dear old dad. “Right. Thanks girls. Will you please go home now?”

 

The car was parked, the gate secured, and Paul was alone as icy pellets pinged all around him. He shouldered the rucksack and looked up at the dark, empty house. He’d stupidly hoped that he’d come home to find Marisol’s grandmother’s Mini parked in the drive. That was why he hadn’t hit the clubs tonight after the session. Because of the one in a million chance that Marisol would have come to her senses and run back here where she belonged, begging him to take her back.

He opened the front door and stood there a minute, shaking the sleet from his hair. He let the rucksack drop to the floor.

There was little he hated more than being alone. What a paradox. One of the most famous and sought-after people in the world, coming home to an empty house. Just him and the cats, all four of them winding around his legs, wanting to be fed. Because there was nobody here to feed them. Christ. How he hated his own miserable company. He should have brought Mal home tonight, at least he wouldn’t be rattling around in this huge drafty house all alone.

He fed the cats and climbed the stairs, longing for bed. Time to put paid to this miserable day.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

He couldn’t stop thinking how everything had gone to shit from the moment he’d been paged out of a studio session and rushed home to find Marisol frantic over the fans again. From that moment on his life had gone from bad to worse.

Work tonight should have been a solace but turned out to be anything but. An absolutely shitty session where next to nothing was accomplished. An utter waste of time.

Largely his own fault, he had to admit. He’d been agro from the start. Who wouldn’t be after the week he’d had? But he knew in his head how he wanted his song to go, and it felt like none of the others gave a flying fuck. He kept stopping the song and trying to explain to George how he wanted the guitar solo to sound, until his old mate glared at him like he wanted to drop an axe right between Paul’s eyes. John couldn’t be arsed tonight. He was clearly on something, off in his own world. And Ringo smoked cigarettes and played chess with Neil, only showing a spark of interest when the session ended and it was time to hit the clubs. Paul had pissed off home, because really, after arguing with Marisol yesterday and confronting the fans today and an entirely unproductive night at work, he was in no mood.

The bedside clock ticked as he tossed and huffed and turned and stewed. If Marisol were here, they’d have satisfying sex and be asleep minutes later. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. It had been…he looked at the illuminated clock on the bureau…thirty bloody seven hours since they’d made it. And then it was only a quickie since they were always so blasted knackered.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, idly rubbing his chest, trying to breathe past the hollow feeling. He got a notion to ring her up but quickly tamped it down. What was she doing right now, he wondered. Was she sleeping peacefully, happy to be rid of him? Or lying awake wishing she'd never left California? Worry gnawed him that she was having second thoughts about moving to England. About the two of them, even.

There was that phone call last week with her sister when he’d overheard her saying something like “but I’m twenty-one and a half, what am I going to do with my life?” which had made him feel like shit because wasn’t being his wife and the mother of his children enough? What did she mean, what was she going to do with her life? Didn’t she have enough to do with running the house and mothering a toddler and keeping him happy?

What was it she wanted anyway? Didn’t she realize how lucky they both were to found the connection they had? He had met thousands of people all over the world for the past eight years and knew how rare it was to deeply connect with someone else. Maybe Marisol was simply too young and inexperienced to realize what they had.

Not even a month ago, Marisol’s Grandma Hadley pulled him aside and informed him, on their wedding day no less, that they were both too young to get married.

It will be all right, Paul assured her. We love each other very much, and we want the same things.

Grandma Hadley patted his arm, nodded sagely and said, “I know you do. But I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you this. I know my granddaughter very well, and she won’t put up with all the crap I put up with from her grandfather. She doesn’t have to put up with any crap.”

It was true, Marisol already had money, and she certainly didn’t want fame, so she had no need to attach herself to somebody to achieve those things. That had always been a relief to Paul, because the suspicion was always there: does this person really like me, the way they seem to, or does this person just like the stuff that surrounds me?

He was certain that Marisol was the one for him, and he had no intention of losing her again, the way he’d lost her after he’d stupidly bedded that American actress tart who couldn’t keep her mouth shut. He’d had enough flings to last the rest of his life and he had no desire to put his banana in any other fruit basket.

But what if, at only twenty-one, Marisol wasn’t as certain about him? What if she had already tired of trailing around in his wake all the time? What if she was already sick of “putting up with all the crap” that came with being his wife, like Grandma Hadley had warned him?

His mind kept wandering to that party at Wyman’s last weekend. It was full of people taking all kinds of things and talking all sorts of bollocks, which was fine if you were partaking, but Marisol wasn’t.

That was the night Mick Jagger, speaking, he assumed, for and on behalf of Marianne, made a tentative inquiry about the possibility of a little light partner swapping with Marisol and Paul.

I suppose it’s always nice to be asked, Paul had said, and comforting to know you’re in someone’s thoughts, but the answer had to be no. Partner-swapping wasn’t his scene. And it definitely wasn’t Marisol’s. The entire party wasn’t her scene.

He’d chanced a glance at Marisol and she wore the expression of a woman who was hoping the floor would open up and swallow her. It just wasn’t how she was interested in spending her time. She’d much rather be out in the country, riding horses and watching grapes grow and taking long walks and perhaps risking her pretty neck larking about in a single engine aircraft for kicks.

He’d recognized that side of her from the beginning, because deep down he wanted that sort of life too. Someday, when he was old and grey. But not now! Not while there was so much happening in London, people doing and creating and changing the culture. He craved the excitement of the city. Besides, what would he write about if he moved out in stockbroker country with the others? Imagine that. A rock song about sheep and sleep and smelling the grass in the bloody meadow?

Speaking of sheep and sleep: Tickety fucking tock went the clock beside the bed and Paul was no closer to sleep. He rubbed his eyes in frustration. Maybe he should try counting sheep, the way his dear old mum had taught him when he was a lad.

At times like these he still felt poleaxed by the loss of his mother. She’d been so capable, so hands on and full of energy and practical advice. If she were alive she’d be down to London at every opportunity, helping his new bride settle in, falling in love with both Marisol and Melody and being his rock the way she’d been for the first fourteen years of his life.

Since becoming a parent himself, he’d been stung with regret by a memory of when he was four or five. He’d inherited his mother’s Irish temper and would act out fairly often if his mother didn’t instantly accede to his demands.

On one occasion he remembered running up to the top of the stairs in a fit of rage at some imagined slight. Mum appeared at the bottom of the stairs smiling and put her arms out, inviting a swift reconciliation. He screamed that he hated her.

But instead of being hurt by his outburst, Mum softened still further, extended her arms again and said, “Come on lovie, come down and have a cuddle.”

Even now, some twenty years later, he could still feel that overwhelming urge to race down the stairs into her arms. It was all he wanted to do, to be wrapped up in her embrace and forgiven for being an idiot. But he just couldn’t. His stubborn genes wouldn’t allow it. He shook his head and ran into his room.

Five minutes later, Mum came up to his room and they must have made up. The details were lost to the fog of time. What wasn’t lost was the feeling of regret, of wishing he’d run down the stairs to be held by her when she asked him to. The chance for that cuddle was lost forever because of his childish pride. He wanted that cuddle back.

_Sometimes it’s not the things you do that leave the most permanent scars, but the things you don’t do._

 

Through an opening in the bedroom drapes, a shard of light from the streetlamp glinted off the ring on his finger. He slid off the heavy gold band, held it in front of his face, flicked it into the air with his thumb and middle finger, and caught it in his fist. Flicked it into the air again. Over and over, until he missed and nearly put his eye out.

He thought about having a yank, something he hadn’t done since he’d been married.

He was married, for god’s sake. Why wasn’t he in bed with his wife?

Because he was too proud to beg her to stay? Fuck that. What good was being proud and going to bed alone? They loved each other. This situation was ludicrous.

With a clear head for the first time in days, he tossed back the covers, swung his feet onto the floor and reached for his clothes.

 

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/GylKqVc)


	34. Chapter 34

[](https://imgur.com/juwAY51)

 

 

 

_December 12, 1966_

_My Dearest Darling Paul,_  
_I want to write “I miss you” on a rock and throw it at your face so you’ll know how much it hurts to miss you._  
_All my love, your loving wife_

 

And that was the extent of what she’d managed to write in her journal during the last thirty hours since she’d left her husband. Marisol closed the leather bound book and tossed it on the coffee table next to a paperback book and the half empty bottle of Hemingway Reserve Chardonnay, Block 18. No need to hide her journal any more. The dogs and Melody weren’t terribly interested in reading about her comings and goings, as long as she kept them fed and entertained most of the day.

She opened the book beside her and found her place. At least she’d have loads of time to read now. The premise of this best-seller was intriguing. A prequel to Jane Eyre, telling the tale of Bertha Mason, the madwoman in the attic. The raving lunatic that was Rochester’s first wife. Jane Bronte described her as violently insane, stalking the hall of Thornfield like a ghost. But what drove her to this grief-stricken state? The simple answer, according to the author of Wide Sargasso Sea, is Rochester. Behind every hysterical woman, look for the man.

“You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world...” 

Marisol closed the book and tossed it on top of her journal. She didn’t feel much like reading either. And if she kept reading, she might never look at Rochester the same way again.

It had taken until well after dark last night to get the house warmed up and their rooms ready. Melody and the dogs followed her all around the small cottage, the three of them standing in doorways watching her airing out rooms and freshening beds, uncertain of this new development in their lives.

Marisol sang songs and talked baby talk and doggy talk and tried to be reassuring. After a trip to the grocery to stock up on staples, she had Melody in bed by 9:30 and retired to her own room, longing for an early night to recover from weeks of late night swinging in London.

She’d fallen asleep immediately. then awoke shivering in the middle of the night and rolled over, stretching out a leg and an arm, feeling for the comfort of a warm body next to her. The pain in her heart flared as soon as she found Paul’s side of the bed empty. She’d been so certain in her heart of hearts that she would wake up to her husband next to her, that he would be unable to fall asleep without her.

She rolled back onto the pillow, pulling the covers up to her neck and wishing she’d brought warmer pajamas. For all she knew, Paul wasn’t worried about losing sleep. He was probably out at the clubs with the lads, forgetting he was married. Or wishing he wasn’t. She could hardly blame him. She’d given him a spectacular amount of trouble lately with all her whinging and moaning.

There was no more sleep that night, she simply lay in bed staring into the darkness and waiting for daylight.

Today seemed to have at least twelve more hours than any of the last thirty days she’d spent living with Paul in London. After a chilly walk with Melody and the dogs, she’d puttered around the house, planning meals, dressing dolls, picking up crayons, sweeping up dog hair and trying to figure out the best way to keep the baby out of the dogs’ water bowl.

At first she played the radio nonstop, but she quickly realized it was either Beatles songs or songs by someone she’d met while out with Paul or songs about heartbreak, and who needed that shit? So she’d played the Sound of Music soundtrack over and over until she went stir crazy and decided to go with silence.

When the phone rang in the early afternoon during Melody’s nap, she nearly jumped out of her skin and tripped over a dog to get to it, certain it would be Paul begging her to come home. It was Kim Moon. Kim said she’d spoken to Paul at Cavendish earlier and Paul had given her this number. If Kim thought it odd that Marisol was living in Sussex while her rock star husband stayed at his London mansion in the very early days of their marriage, she gave no sign of it. They talked for twenty minutes, mostly about the babies, and made plans to meet for lunch on Thursday.

As soon as she hung up, Marisol picked up the receiver again, planning to call Angela. After a couple of beats she replaced it in the cradle. Did she really want to tell Angela that she and Paul were living apart? What if it was only temporary? Surely it was only temporary. Surely Paul would be at the door any moment, guitar in hand, complaining about the weather and demanding a kiss.

When the sky clouded over earlier today along with a rapid drop in temperature, Marisol bundled the baby off on another trip to the grocery, worried that they could be snowed in out here in the country. The market was crowded with villagers stocking up on staples and talking about the coming snow. Marisol found herself in a long queue at the cashier’s, where two women behind her passed the time whispering about her.

I know that’s her.  
It can’t be her, all the way out here.  
The child though, it looks like him.

The whispers were replaced momentarily by a tutting sound, and then:

“Young women these days have no morals,” a woman said in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the Home Counties.

“Such a pity. Look at the way they dress. They’re just asking for it.”

Marisol felt her face flaming as she paid the cashier and hustled out of the store into the cold wind with her daughter and her basket of groceries. Her eyes stung with tears as she loaded her grandmother’s Mini. The judgmental women had made her want to throw her coat over her daughter to hide her, which only made her furious, and anger always seemed to manifest in tears.

Paul would have confronted the women. Then again, if Paul had been along it would have been a different scenario. They probably would have asked him for an autograph.

The weather had deteriorated throughout the day, rain turning to freezing rain, and now sleet pinged against the windows and a howling wind rattled the panes. The little house never seemed to get warm since she’d been here, although Grandma Bellamy always had it warm and toasty and inviting.

Thoughts of Grandma Bellamy made her heart hurt even more. She fell over onto the sofa and curled herself into a ball under her grandmother’s lavender and gray quilt. It was time for bed but she couldn’t bring herself to admit that another day was ending without a word from Paul. It actually shocked her how easily he had let her go, and with his baby! What had happened to them? How had it happened so fast?

She must have drifted off momentarily, because she was startled awake by a deep growl from Beau. She jerked upright with her heart pounding. Both Beau and Cookie were standing at attention at the front door. Who in their right mind would be outside in this weather?

Cookie barked and Beau’s growl turned to a whimper seconds before the front door burst open and Paul appeared, his black hair sparkling with flecks of ice.

“Jayyyyzus!” he exclaimed, and an overnight bag slid off his shoulder onto the braided rug in the foyer. “Is the baby up?” he asked, bending over to greet the dogs.

Marisol was on her feet, tightening her pony tail and smoothing her pajamas. “Of course not Paul, it’s the middle of the night!”

“Right,” he said, straightening and shaking his hair, flinging water droplets everywhere like a retriever puppy. “Well then fuck me, it’s cold enough to freeze the bollocks off a brass monkey out there.”

“Thanks for not swearing in front of the baby.” She reached behind her, felt for her warm glass of wine and downed it. Because her person was here, filling up the room with his male energy, and her heart was racing. She’d down the rest of the bottle if he weren’t watching her so closely.

“What are you doing up?” His eyes never left her as she crossed the room to meet him in the foyer.

“Oh. Just…you know. Reading and…” _Missing you._ She cleared her throat. “Just reading.”

He nodded and held out a navy rucksack. “Got our wedding pictures back.”

She took it from him, unzipped it and peered inside. “All of them?”

“A good amount.”

Marisol sighed and set the rucksack on the stairs. The photos could wait.

“You look…you look absolutely…”

“Handsome?” he suggested.

“…drenched,” she finished. “And wrecked.”

“Well I would be wouldn’t I? Seeing how it’s pissing down all sorts of frozen shit.”

She slid his coat off his shoulders, shook it out and hung it over the banister. “How did you get so drenched just getting out of the car?”

“Do you think I parked right in front of the house? Not bloody likely. I’m not going to lead a murder of paparazzi right to your door.”

They were inches apart and her fingers, with a mind of their own, combed through his wet hair and then rested on his shoulders.

“Want to come in and warm up?” she said, as they stared into each other’s eyes.

“I want you to come home,” he said. “I need a shag badly. I’m sick of pulling me plonker.”

Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt. “My husband. The last of the big time romantics.”

“I want you to come home, please,” he amended.

She shook her head and continued to unbutton his shirt. “Nothing has changed. It’s only been…”

“Thirty-nine hours,” he said. “Since our last shag. Thirty-nine ridiculous hours crammed full of absolutely no shagging.”

“Then you should have come here with me last night.” She tugged his shirt out of his trousers and slid it off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He shivered a little as her cold hands danced over his chest before dropping to his belt.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it. I didn’t think you’d actually leave.”

“I didn’t think you’d let me.” With his belt free, she let it clink to the floor behind him. Her hand paused at the waistband of his trousers and she leaned in and licked the ticklish spot just under his earlobe.

“What took you so long to get here?” she whispered into his cold, damp ear.

“I was waiting for you to come to your senses.”

He pulled the hair band from her pony tail and flung it into the room, where it landed with a soft plop on the carpet.

“You know I like your hair down,” he whispered, running his hands up her sides while he breathed into her hair.

“I thought you liked it up.”

“I do.”

He straightened, and to her surprise, he dropped his hands from her waist and walked toward the kitchen. He whistled for the dogs, locked them in the kitchen, and stood just inside the living room, shirtless and sexy as hell.

“Did you bring your guitar?” Marisol asked.

His brow furrowed in confusion. “No…why?”

“Oh. No reason. I just wanted to know how long you were staying,” she said, holding her breath, hoping he was here for more than a shag.

“As long as it takes I suppose, to bring you back home with me.”

“Good answer,” she said, with a tentative smile.

“Come here,” he said, smiling back. “I have something for you.”

“Is it in your pocket?” she said, moving slowly towards him.

“Sort of.”

“Is it something I need, or something I want?”

“Absolutely.”

He held out his hands and she took them, letting him reel her in for a kiss. Her husband possessed a considerable range of great kisses. This one was coaxing and sincere and full of promises of good things to come. She kissed him back with her whole body.

Her husband. Here at last. Back in the little village where they had met and fallen in love. Love had slipped in on her here. It wasn’t the thing she thought she was looking for when she’d run off to England all those years ago, but it felt so good, so magical, so real.

“Do you like magic?” he said between kisses.

“Why yes I do, you freaky mind reader.”

He nibbled on her lower lip, his hands dipping under the hem of her pajama top and sliding up her sides, stopping just under her breasts.

“Good. Because I have something magical for you. I’ve been planning to give it to you all day.”

She took his hand and moved it up to cover the swell of her breast.

“Tell me.”

He palmed her breast with an icy hand, making her whimper, then pulled her pajama top over her head and dropped it behind her. “I have something very hot and full for only you and I’m going to push it over and over into your warm, friendly place.”

“Show me.” She unzipped his trousers and reached her hand inside his briefs. “But first, do that thing where you use your finger to trace the letters of my name inside me. It feels so…so very…pleasant…”

His laugh next to her ear made her shiver. “It's such a waste of a good long name, love, when you never make it past the letter S.”

It was true. He had magic in his fingers and he knew just how to touch her to make her go off in an explosion of light. “I'm so glad there's an S in my name,” she whispered between kisses as he backed her across the room.

“Lucky for you you're not named Ida,” he said. “What could I do with that?” They were both giggling as they wriggled out of the rest of their clothes. That was how it felt with her husband, when they were alone, without the rest of the world intruding. They had met, he cracked her up, and they were suppressing giggles all their lives.

They didn’t make it upstairs to the bedroom. They only just made it to the sofa and her grandmother’s cozy lavender quilt.

 

“Please stay,” Marisol whispered, when she was sprawled on top of him later, catching her breath.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said, stroking her hair.

And for now, in the dark hours of an icy winter night when she was finally warm, that was all she needed to hear.


	35. Chapter 35

“Can you take us into London today?” Marisol rinsed the last of the breakfast dishes and set it in the draining rack. She turned around to look at her husband, still at the table, seated next to the baby.

Paul shook out the newspaper with a snap. “It would be my pleasure. You’ve finally come to your senses. Shall I help you pack your things?”

“I’m not staying. I’m going Christmas shopping with Kim. So I’m going to need you to stay with Mel. We can’t get anything done when we have the babies with us.”

Their eyes met over the newspaper. Then Paul had the nerve to laugh at her. “Right, Marisol, I’m the nanny now.”

“No, you’re the _father_.”

“Yes, and the breadwinner. Who do you suppose is going to write our next album, Ritchie?”

“I’ll be home by four.”

“Don’t Kim and Keith have a nanny? A lovely little French au pair perhaps?”

Marisol smiled, because it reminded her of something that had happened the last time she was out with Kim.

 

_They were standing outside a cafe studying the posted menus, with their daughters in their push carts. A suited gentleman in a bowler hat strolled up and paused, as if considering whether or not to go inside. He smiled at them. “Good day, girls. How are you finding England?”_

_“Well it’s better than being holed up in a convent across the Irish Sea, I can promise you that,” said Kim._

_“Oh. Pardon me,” the man said. “I thought you were French au pairs.”_

_“I only speak French to my husband, in bed.” Kim said, turning back to the menu._

_The red-faced man adjusted his hat and scurried away._

_“You’re so cheeky,” Marisol said._

_“He needs to mind his own,” Kim said._

_But they had laughed at the thought that they had been mistaken for au pairs instead of the married mothers they were._

 

“Out, Mama! Out!” Melody banged her empty sippy cup on the metal tray of her high chair.

“They don’t have a nanny,” Marisol said, coming back to the present. She took the cup from Melody’s hand and wiped down the metal tray with a hot soapy dish cloth. “They have Kim’s mum and Keith’s mum, grandmothers galore.”

Paul got a little sad, faraway look in his eyes at that, and Marisol quickly continued. “My mother will be here soon for Christmas. My whole family, and yours, and we’ll have to sort all that out.”

“Another reason for you to get your pretty little arse home where you belong.”

Marisol bit back her reply. She had at least another week before she had to panic about Christmas.

“So you’ll watch her?”

“Yes, love. We’ll have a day.”

He folded his newspaper and shoved away from the table. “From what I hear, Kim is badly in need of a level headed older sister sort of mate.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Not my business to tell.”

She wanted to press him, but once he decided to be close-mouthed about something, there was no swaying him. Besides, she would see Kim for herself today. She turned to rinse the dish cloth in the sink. Seconds later she felt Paul behind her, one arm snaking around her waist, one hand pushing her pony tail aside so he could breathe soft kisses on the back of her neck. She tilted her head, giving him better access. Then she felt his mouth clamp down on her, sucking on her skin like a Hoover.

“Ow, stop it!” She squirmed to get away from him, which only seemed to arouse him more. She finally managed to turn around in his arms with her back against the counter and gained the leverage to push him away. “What are you doing, you animal!”

“Just letting the world know you’re mine.” He stood back a little, his fingers grazing the bright red mark he’d left on her pale skin. “I need morish of you, love. What time will you be home again?”

Melody shouted from the high chair, her leather shoes banging on the chair rail.

“Can you get her?” Marisol said, rubbing her neck and scowling at her husband. “Now I’ll have to wear a scarf all day.”

“I’ll gladly mind our daughter today, and then work in the studio until the wee hours,” he said. “On one condition.”

“Oh here we go. What is it?”

“I want you to start interviewing for a nanny, or at least a housekeeper. The place is getting out of hand. I couldn’t even find the kettle last night.”

Marisol sighed. She couldn’t begin to imagine what state the house was in now that Paul just used it as a place to change clothes and have the lads in for a smoke or a bevy.

“I’ll take care of it. We’ll have to do something before Christmas comes.” Right now she had more pressing things on her mind, like what Paul had meant about Kim needing an older sister.

[](https://imgur.com/z7e1m7a)

Since being evicted from their St John’s Woods home, Keith and Kim now lived in a small flat above a car showroom in Highgate, North London, twenty minutes away by tube.

Kim answered the door in a a short black dress and black tights, sporting a pair of oversized dark sunglasses. Her fringe was longer than usual and her hair covered much of her face. Marisol would scarcely have recognized her friend until the familiar grin lit up her face.

“Step inside, Lady McCartney,” Kim said cheerfully.

“Thank you, Lady Moon,” Marisol teased back.

They embraced, and Marisol looked around, trying to hide her surprise. This was not at all the sort of abode where you would expect to find a rock and roll drummer with several smash hits to his name and his beautiful model wife. It looked more like the den of a family of honey badgers engaged in the manufacture of tomato sauce and red wine, judging from the carpet.

“Come in, pardon the mess,” Kim said happily. “Keith is finally back on the road and my mum’s in the kitchen. I just need to grab my bag and coat.”

Mandy was standing up in her cot, shaking it back and forth with a great deal of vigor and shouting “Mumumumum!”

The cot was rattling so violently that it seemed it would fall right over, or at least skate across the wood floor, were it not for the electrical cord that tied it to the radiator under the window. This was clearly a little girl who took after her father in terms of zest for life, Marisol thought.

“Hi Mandy!” Marisol waved at the little girl. “Can I get her out?” she asked Kim.

“Oh, no, Mum will see to her. I can’t have her wallowing in all that fox shit.”

“Oh.” Marisol idly wondered what “fox shit” meant in British slang. Then she was distracted by the sight of Kim’s bedroom. There was very little furniture, and a piece of wire strung across a curtained-off alcove apparently served as a wardrobe.

“Kim? Why is your bed on the floor?”

Kim blew out a sigh. She paused in front of a mirror and carefully arranged pieces of her hair to fall over the left side of her face. “That was when Keith came in feeling fruity and jumped on me.”

Marisol brought her hand to her mouth, unable to contain the embarrassed giggle.

“Yeah,” Kim said, frowning at the bed. “All four legs broke.”

As they left the bedroom, Marisol became aware of a strange musky smell, which worsened as they got to the living room. There she was amazed to see a solitary sofa and racks of stereo equipment lining the walls, and an expensive looking carpet dotted with piles of animal droppings.

“Um…do you have a dog?”

“It’s Foxy.” Kim pointed to a tiny creature peering out from behind a speaker. “She lives in the loudspeakers.”

“Oh…she’s so…wow…I never knew you could bring a baby fox inside.”

“You really can’t. It’s a disaster. It shouldn’t be in town in the first place, let alone in a flat.”

Marisol couldn’t argue with that. No matter how endearing this tiny creature was, it couldn’t make up for the dreadful smell.

Kim scanned the room and found her black wool coat draped over the sofa, next to a large red stain. She pointed to the door which presumably led to the kitchen. “I’ll just tell Mum we’re off.”

Marisol stood in the center of the room, fighting the urge to clean something, or at least scoop up some of the fox shit. Apparently fox shit was British slang for fox shit. Clearly Kim was overwhelmed. Mandy continued to yell and the cot continued to rattle.

Moments later Kim was hustling Marisol out the door, where they both took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Sorry, I would have introduced you to Mum but she’s already…” Kim tossed back her head and mimed bringing a bottle to her lips.

“Is Mandy going to be okay?” Marisol blurted.

Kim laughed. “Well Mum’s been sozzled for most of my life and I’m okay aren’t I?”

Marisol had to quicken her steps to keep up with Kim as they clattered down the narrow stairs. Kim was on a mission, fleeing from a bad dream.

Marisol was on a mission too. She wanted to get her Christmas shopping done while Paul was keeping Melody distracted. Even though Paul had mentioned on the drive up that it was silly for Marisol to have to go out in the crowds and shop for Christmas presents, when that was what they had Mal for. Marisol told him she was buggered if she was going to let Mal do her Christmas shopping. Paul said nothing, only squinted at her in that way he did whenever she tried to swear in British.

They hit the shops with a vengeance, making selections and arranging to have everything delivered to their homes later that day. They were quick and deliberate, in and out of shops before anyone had a chance to recognize them. Of course they garnered quite a few curious glances, which Marisol attributed to the fact that Kim for some reason wouldn’t remove her huge sunglasses. This simply made her look like a Hollywood starlet trying to be noticed for how hard she was trying not to be noticed.

Then they stopped for lunch in a dark little pub with wooden paneling and windows with stained glass inserts. As she settled back against the study wooden chair, Marisol noticed Kim holding the menu eight inches in front of her face. And still wearing the sunglasses.

Marisol folded her hands over her own menu and looked at her friend. “Kim. What is going on?”

“Mmm?” With her free hand, Kim was pulling strands of hair over her face, a recent affectation that Marisol had never noticed before.

Marisol leaned closer, trying to see through the dark lenses. “Has he been knocking you about?” she hissed.

“Oi! Put a sock in it!” Kim hissed back, scooting her chair farther away and scowling at Marisol as a waitress in a short black skirt and mini pouch apron approached to take their order.

As soon as the waitress left, Kim shoved her sunglasses up on her head, revealing an angry looking cut and a purple bruise under one eye that she’d clearly tried to hide with makeup. “There. Have a look. Now you know how shitty my life is.”

Marisol sucked in a gasp. Then she reached across the table for Kim’s hand. “Oh honey. Everyone’s life is shitty sometimes, but you don’t have to stay and let him treat you like a punching bag!”

Kim’s eyes welled with tears. She pulled her hand out of Marisol’s grasp and dabbed at her eyes with a serviette before lowering the sunglasses back onto her face.

“It really wasn’t his fault this time. I was sort of collateral damage.”

“Even so. He sounds unstable, Kim.”

She shrugged. “Keith is Keith.”

Marisol looked down at her lap, where her fingers were busy folding her cloth serviette into the smallest possible triangle. She wanted to help Kim, not alienate her. It was so hard to know if she was crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed in their new friendship. But the sight of the angry welt under Kim’s eye meant she couldn’t keep silent.

“Look, I know how hard it is. Especially with the men we’re married to. I mean, shit. I’ve been married three weeks and I’m living in the country while Paul is in London.”

Kim looked away, as if embarrassed to be privy to that information. Neither of them spoke while the waitress returned with two bottles of Babycham and filled their glasses. When the waitress was gone, Kim said softly, “Is everything all right with you and Paul?”

Marisol took a sip of the alcoholic sparkling pear juice. It was Kim’s idea, not really Marisol’s choice, but it was light and frothy and hard to hate. It reminded her of apple cider, only sweeter. She thought about Kim’s question.

“I could live happily with Paul on a deserted island, no problem. He’d go bonkers, probably, but not me. He suits me just fine. It’s all the outside stresses that make it seem so impossible.”

“You mean other women?” Kim asked.

“No! God no!” Marisol shook her head, blanching at how easily Kim had leaped to that conclusion. “He’s with me every night. I mean the fans hassling me and…I’m just so flipping exhausted all the time with people coming and going all hours and Paul wanting to go out every night when we have a baby. Our life is so haphazard. Not at all like I thought it would be.”

“The leapers help though, right?”

“The what?”

“Leapers. Uppers, pep pills. Keith gives me a handful of those and I can go without sleep all weekend long.”

“Good lord…that is so bad for you, Kim.” Now Marisol was starting to feel more like an aging un-hip aunt than a cool older sister that Kim could confide in.

“No they’re not. They’re on prescription as a pick-me-up for tired housewives and the like. Even my mum has a go at them. Besides, they keep the weight off.”

That silenced her. Maybe Kim was right. Maybe drugs were the only way she was going to keep up with Paul. Maybe she needed a doctor to prescribe a round of “happy housewife” pills. Maybe she did need to see a doctor, to diagnose her depression, or anxiety, or whatever else it was that had made her leave her darling husband who loved her and would never beat on her. Anyway, how had this conversation become about her?

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to take something to cope. Because I wake up every morning and look over at my sleeping husband and my first thought is how much I love him and my second thought is how am I going to be able to live with him?”

Kim lowered her head, nodding slowly. “That’s exactly how it is with us. I love him so much. But I’m starting to wonder if we should be together.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Marisol said, holding her breath.

“It wasn’t his fault this time,” Kim said. And she quietly began the tale of the Great Spaghetti Fiasco which resulted in her black eye two nights ago.

 

Her mother Joan had come up to stay with Kim and Mandy during Keith’s upcoming tour. On the night before he was due to leave, Joan had cooked up a great pot of her renowned pasta. They’d waited for hours for Keith to come home. When his roadie Dougal showed up, without Keith, they finally tucked in to the meal. Minutes later, Keith rolled in with a sulky look on his face.

“Where’s my kaftan?” he demanded of Kim.

Kim told him where it was. “It’s not there,” he said. “I looked. It’s not there.”

There were roughly three more rounds of words exchanged before it looked as though Keith was edging closer to violence to get his point across. Dougal leapt to his feet in Kim’s defense. “Leave it out,” he said, which was all he managed to say because Keith seized a milk bottle and slung it at him. The bottle missed, but it shattered against the wall and a shard of glass flew out and cut Kim’s face.

Suddenly everyone was crying—Joan, Kim and Mandy—while Keith and Dougal went at each other, falling into the handle of the spaghetti pot. Two grown men rolling around on the kitchen floor, spreading milk and tomato sauce everywhere as they tried to strangle each other in the remains of dinner.

 

“Jesus,” Marisol said, her head in her hands as Kim wrapped up the story. “No wonder your mother drinks. I bet she wanted to kill him when she saw your eye.”

“I don’t know about all that. She was mostly aggravated that her meal was ruined.”  
Kim picked up her glass of Perry and downed it. “Maybe we’re too different. I mean, I like to party as much as the next girl. I’m quite partial to parties, but I’m normal about it. I talk to my mates. I don’t throw beer at them.” She examined the bottle of Babycham for a silent moment, then brought it to her lips and finished it off.

“That’s reasonable,” said Marisol.

“I think the problem is, we spend a lot of time apart. Even when he’s not on tour he goes on binges, and I don’t want to be with him when he’s like that, dressing up like Hitler and walking across other people’s tables, throwing everyone’s dinner up in the air.”

“Of course not. No one would. Kim. He has to do something about his drinking, or whatever he’s on, if it makes him out of control.”

“Well that isn’t going to happen. He says it’s all about the image. He says getting thrown out of clubs is good for business.”

“Kim. What if that shard of glass had hit Mandy?”

“Then I’d have killed him,” Kim said with calm assurance.

“No, you might have tried, but he’d have killed you, because he’s so much stronger than you are.”

“Shut yer trap,” Kim said, lowering her voice. “These two bints are heading our way.”

“The what?”

Kim didn’t answer. She was fiddling with her hair again, dragging it over the left side of her face.

Marisol looked around to see two young women approaching their table, looking eager and flustered.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” one of them said to Kim. The odor of cigarettes and the smell of perfume wafted off their clothing.

“Last time I looked,” Kim said drily.

A spate of giggling and cooing ensued. “I knew it! We just love you! The both of you!” One of the girls aimed a sweet smile at Marisol before focusing on Kim. “We follow everything you do and when your picture is in the paper we go out the next day and try to find something just like it!”

The other girl bobbed her head enthusiastically, making her auburn curls bounce. “That dress you wore in Nice! I could die!”

Kim frowned. “The dress in Nice?”

“Wait…who do you think we are exactly?” Marisol asked.

“You’re the birds wot stole the last of the Beatles, o’ course!”

Marisol and Kim exchanged an amused look while the two girls continued clucking and giggling.

“That dress you wore in Nice, though! The one wot sparkles.” The girls looked at each other and sighed with pleasure. “Where did you find it?”

“Oh, that old thing?” Kim waved an airy hand. “Georgie found it. Bless him. He’s so besotted with me, he can’t do enough for me. New dresses every day, flowers, chocolates, poetry, you know, all that rubbish.”

Marisol stifled a giggle as the girls swooned.

“Could you sign for us?” The curvier girl produced an autograph book and a pen.

“Sure thing, love.”

Kim took the book and scrawled “Pattie Boyd Harrison” in large loopy script across the page.

The girls thanked her and turned to Marisol.

“Your hair is so pretty! I always knew Paul would marry a blonde. He’s always so partial to blondes. I never could figure why he was with Jane, could you?” She turned to her friend, who was shaking her head.

“No, couldn’t work that one out.”

“When we saw your picture in the paper we knew you were the one for him.”

“Even if you are American,” the other girl added. “Because of your hair. Can you sign for us?”

“Of course.” Marisol took the book and signed her name, while the girls continued to sigh.

“What is it like coming home to Paul every night? He’s so dreamy!”

“Yes, well, it’s…ah…never a dull moment, is how I might describe it,” Marisol answered, shooting a smile at Kim.

“Crikey, if I could just be you for one bloody night,” one of the girls said with so much feeling that Marisol’s hand skipped on the second “C” in McCartney.

“Oh come on, girls. I’m sure you’ll each find your Prince Charming the same as we did.”

Marisol handed back the book and winked at Kim, who sat smiling placidly with her chin in her hand, her silky blonde hair falling partially over her left eye.

The girls walked away chattering and Marisol and Kim shared another meaningful look.

“Imagine that. They would kill to be us,” Marisol said softly.

“They want to be you and Pattie Boyd,” Kim corrected. “I’m not sure anyone would want my life right now.” She brightened. “The upside is, he’s on tour again!”

The waitress arrived with their food, and they both stared at the plates she’d left. Neither of them seemed to feel particularly hungry now.

“What would you be doing if you hadn’t met Paul? With your life I mean,” Kim asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I’d be in college. Maybe trying to write a children’s book or something like that.” Marisol sipped her drink. “What about you?”

“I guess I’d be modeling. Probably still in Bournemouth. And for kicks I’d go down to the shore with an easel and draw caricatures of tourists.”

Behind them a beer mug thumped against a wooden table top. Glasses clinked together across the room. The voices around them seemed to grow louder the more people drank.

“Tell me something, Kim. It sounds like you’re happy Keith’s gone on tour. Are you actually relieved when he walks out the door?”

Kim picked up her fork, toying with a lettuce leaf. “Oh, you know. It’s a relief that he isn’t around wrecking things and waking Mandy up. But he’ll start sending me love letters and I’ll miss him again. Because I know how sweet he can be.”

Marisol nodded, not knowing how much more she should say. She swirled her pasta around with her fork, all appetite gone.

“It’s the weirdest thing though,” Kim continued. “It’s gotten so when he walks in the door after a tour my period immediately starts. Like my body is telling me something…”

Marisol’s fork clanged against the china plate. “Fucking hell, Kim. Your body is telling you to stay away from him. To run the hell away.” She blew out a sigh when Kim merely toyed with her salad without answering. “What does your mother say you should do?” she asked, her voice softer.

“I’m not taking her advice. She’s pissed all the time and her marriage is a shambles.”

Marisol leaned across the table. “Take the fucking glasses off. I want you to look me in the eyes.”

Kim set down her fork and did as she was asked, even though she rolled her eyes a little before settling them on her friend.

“If you need a place to stay, I am here for you. You can stay with me in Sussex.”

Kim gave a little smirk. “Wouldn’t that be a fine thing, once Keith found me there and wrecked the place.”

“I’ll move back to London and you and Mandy can stay with me and Paul and…Mal. Mal is huge.”

Kim looked about to cry. She shoved her sunglasses back on and sat back against her chair, gathering her emotions.

“Thank you, really, but we’re okay. I have places to stay. I just have to get it sorted. I could always go to my dad’s in Bournemouth.”

“Why don’t you do that? Go to Bournemouth?”

“I’ve gone, several times, and Keith just comes and fetches me and tells me he’s changed.”

“What does your father think of all this?”

Kim laughed mirthlessly. “My dad wants to kill him. He overturned a table on him. I think my dad is the only person Keith has ever been afraid of.”

“Won’t your dad help you get away from him then?”

“Oh Marisol. You don’t know my dad. I can’t stay with him. He’s like an old retired army general. Besides, he sent me off to a convent when I was thirteen. He’s the reason I married Keith, to escape…” She trailed off as the waitress passed by, checking on them, dropping off two more bottles of Babycham.

When the waitress disappeared, Kim was the first to resume the conversation. “I keep thinking about the moment I knew I was falling in love with Keith. I was told that the Who’s picture would be in Princess, the one magazine I subscribed to. I was so excited at the prospect of seeing my boyfriend in my magazine, next to all those famous pop stars, that I stayed awake all night and rushed downstairs as soon as I heard the newspapers pushed through the letterbox. And there was Keith, wrapped up inside, delivered right to my heart. I can’t even explain how that felt.”

Marisol smiled sadly. “You don’t have to explain it to me. Because I’ve felt that way. Twice. I thought my first boyfriend was the love of my life. Then I lost him and nearly died from grief and in waltzed Paul, the second love of my life. When I was just your age.”

“Teach me your secrets, Oh Wise One,” Kim teased.

“I’ll tell you this: You need to get your daughter out of that situation before she gets hurt. I’m so worried for the two of you.”

Reaching across the table, Kim squeezed Marisol’s hand. “You see? This is why I didn’t want you to know. Don’t worry. I’ll get it sorted. I just need a little time.”

“Promise you’ll call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Pinky swear,” Kim said, hooking their little fingers together and aiming a reassuring smile across the table.

 

[](https://imgur.com/QcP8xWC)

Standing on the crowded tube at rush hour, Marisol’s heart was heavy with worry for Kim. Her own problems paled in comparison. She wanted more than anything to talk to Paul about what, if anything, they could do to help her. When she stepped out of the tube station the sun was sinking low on another London winter afternoon. Chilly air blasted through her wool coat as she strode the few blocks from the station and shoved her way through the handful of fans at the gate.

“Oh look. The wicked witch is back,” one of the girls said.

“Go home girls,” Marisol said. “We have more important fish to fry than your nonsense.”

Several of the girls were laughing at her as Marisol slammed the gate in their faces.

When she came in the door Paul was standing in the foyer, tapping his watch. John was sprawled on the sofa behind him, reading a magazine. Marisol flung herself at her husband, looping her arms around his neck and whispering how much she loved him.

“Hey. What’s all this?” Paul said sheepishly. “Lennon’s here. We’re late, actually.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” John said. “Go on, love. Get you some of that.”

Ignoring John, Marisol cupped her hands around her husband’s stubbled jaws. “I just realized again today how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

“About time,” Paul muttered. He took her by the elbow and pulled her into the dining room. “You’re moving back home.” It was a statement, not a question.

Marisol kissed him sweetly first before saying, “No, I can’t. Sweetheart. You know I can’t. And the dogs are out in the country waiting for dinner.”

“Sod this for a game of soldiers,” Paul fumed, pushing himself away from her. “You’re making me bloody nuts.”

Marisol stumbled a little before she caught her balance. “Where’s the baby?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“When she wakes up I’m going to need Mal to take us to Sussex. You’ll come join us tonight, right? So we can talk?”

“Whatever.” He waved her away and stalked out of the room, shouting for John.

Marisol stood there hugging herself, wincing as the door slammed behind her husband.


	36. Chapter 36

“This is not a long term solution, you do understand that?” Paul stood in the foyer of the cottage in Sussex, a frown marring his boyish features.

“Yes, darling. We’ll see you tonight.” Marisol looped the soft grey knitted scarf around her husband’s neck. “Where did you get this scarf?”

“One of my girls made it for me.”

“One of your girls?” She let go of the scarf and arched a brow at him.

“Well, yes, as opposed to one of John’s girls or George’s, you know.”

Marisol arranged her features into a long-suffering look which made him laugh.

“Ma dada,” Melody said, holding onto Paul’s trousers and grinning up at him. He reached down and lifted the toddler into his arms, swaying gently while she cooed at him and patted his cheek.

“As I was saying, I can’t keep racing out to the country night and day to be with you and Mel. I parked the bloody car in the next country over! It's cold enough to be slapping dogs off lampposts. It's blowing a hoolie. Bloody belting it down. Look love, I understand you needed a respite to sort yourself, but our home is in London.”

“Drive safe, sweetheart.” Marisol reached around her daughter and pressed a kiss to his frowning lips. “I love you.”

She held out her arms to take their daughter but he kept swaying from side to side, ignoring her.

“Christmas is a week away. What am I supposed to tell your family when they all show up with a case of homemade wine or some shit only to find you’ve gone?”

“We’ll figure something out,” Marisol said, unwilling to be drawn into an argument as Paul was headed off to work.

“We need to put up a tree and all that shit,” Paul said, sounding more exasperated.

“Shiii. Shiii,” Melody parroted, almost perfectly.

“Watch your language!” Marisol warned her husband, taking the baby from him over Melody’s vigorous protests.

“No! Dada! Want dada!”

“We’ll talk about this tonight.” Paul pointed a finger close to the end of her nose and Marisol angled her face away. It was beyond annoying when he did that.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” Paul said, snapping his fingers. “This came for you.”

She turned back to see him pulling a small package out of his overnight bag.

“From the good ole U. S. of A.”

“I hope it’s not an incendiary device.” Marisol shot a skeptical look at the hand addressed parcel.

Paul turned the package over in his hands. “Hmm. I never imagined your Grandma Hadley as the mad bomber type.”

In a flash, Marisol set Melody on her feet and grabbed the package out of Paul’s hands. She tore the paper off, barely registering the kiss Paul dropped on her cheek before he ducked out the door. "We'll talk when I get home," he said, letting in a blast of cold air before the door closed behind him.

“Dada!” Melody wailed, pointing at the door, crocodile tears instantly flooding her round brown eyes.

“Ssh, shh, look sweetie.” With the wrapping paper off, Marisol lifted the lid of a small box and pulled out a Lady and the Tramp coloring book. “Lookit baby girl! Grandma Hadley sent you puppies!”

“Buggy,” Melody said, taking the book and plopping onto her bottom.

“Puppy,” Marisol corrected.

“Buggy,” Melody said again, her bottom lip jutting out. She whimpered pitifully, still upset at her daddy’s abrupt departure, but Cookie scrambling over to lick her tears away seemed to perk her up. “Ah, buggy.”

Marisol sat on the steps and gasped with exaggerated delight as she pulled out the rest of the surprises. She held up two film canisters containing parts 1 and 2 of the Lady and the Tramp Disney movie. “You are going to love this, Mellie-boo. I’ll see if Daddy can bring a projector by for us.”

But Melody had lost interest and was halfway under the hall table reaching for Beau’s tail.

“Tails are not for pulling,” Marisol mumbled, her attention riveted to the last item in the box. She pushed aside the tissue paper to reveal a burgundy leather Gucci journal notebook with a lock and key. Inside was an inscription in Grandma Hadley’s looping script: “Write, Marisol!”

Smiling, Marisol clutched the journal to her chest. Grandma Hadley was always telling her to write. And she just might manage it today, after lunch when The Sooty Show came on the BBC to distract Melody.

*

“Izzy wizzy, let’s get busy!” Marisol repeated, turning up the volume on the television.

With her Soo panda puppet in her lap, Melody stared at the television, spellbound. She waved her chubby left arm like it held a magic wand and chanted “widdy widdy” along with the puppets on the screen.

“Are you left-handed?” Marisol wondered aloud. It certainly looked that way. No matter. Left or right, the child was distracted. And absorbed. God bless the BBC.

Marisol picked up her new journal and tiptoed to Grandma Bellamy’s small writing desk in the corner of the room. At last she could jot down the thoughts that had been simmering all day.

The roll top desk appeared to be locked, but Marisol knew where Grandma had kept the key. It was still there, hanging from a tiny nail behind the desk. She unlocked and rolled up the top of the desk, then sat back with her hand over her mouth.

It was like a time capsule, untouched since her grandmother last sat at this desk. Cubbyholes at the back contained a roll of stamps, a box of Christmas cards, stationery and envelopes, a rolled-up Kay’s mail order catalogue, a stack of opened mail, a mug full of pencils and pens. A cardboard wallet of photographs. A handful of receipts, a doctor’s prescription.

A wave of grief washed over her and she swallowed hard and blinked at the minutiae of her sweet grandmother’s life. How different life would be if Grandma Bellamy were still here, with her warm hugs and wise advice.  
At this moment when Marisol was at a crossroads in her marriage and in her life in general, what she wouldn’t give to be in the kitchen with her grandmother, figuring life out over a pot of tea and a roll of McVitie’s…

Melody crowed at the television, bringing Marisol out of her reverie. With a sigh, she opened the journal from Grandma Hadley and flattened the pages.

Write what you know, so the adage went. If you’re a drunken, brawling adventurer like Papa Hemingway, no problem. But what did that really mean, to write what you know? It didn’t refer to events, of that Marisol was sure. It was about emotions. Had she known love? jealousy? longing? loss? Yes, yes, yes and yes. She knew those emotions. And if you’re writing what you know, readers will feel it.

I know how it feels to be a girl in a man’s world. I know how it feels to have a dream. I know how it feels to be the only person in the room who didn’t grow up here. I know how it feels to leave home. I know how it feels to fly.

Flipping to the first blank page, Marisol wrote the world Calitopia and underlined it, and she began to jot down an outline.

 

_Imagine a young girl, say thirteen or fourteen, named Maria, living fifty years in the future, let’s say the year 2020, when interplanetary travel is common, and girl pilots are the norm. Just suppose Maria is from the planet Calitopia, where everyone looks the same with coffee colored skin and chocolate eyes and curly dark hair. And one day when the plucky heroine is making a routine trip to a neighboring planet, her space shuttle malfunctions and she crash lands on the planet Anglia, where everyone has pale skin and lavender eyes and blue hair..._

_Suppose the people of Anglia have not yet discovered space travel and are frightened of Calitopians with their strange looks and superior technology..._

_Perhaps Anglia is ruled by a benevolent but narrow-minded king who imprisons Maria...but his thirteen year old daughter the princess befriends her?_

 

Marisol set down her pen, raised her head and sniffed the air. Was it only her imagination, this ladylike scent that seemed to waft around her, bringing to mind her grandmother’s perfume? She inhaled deeply. How strange that she could distinctly smell the frangipani scent of Shalimar...

Her mind drifted back to the day of her grandmother’s funeral, with Paul appearing out of the blue and seeing Melody for the first time and all the ensuing drama. Who could have imagined that nine months later she’d be Mrs. Paul McCartney, with her dazed and amazed visage splashed across tabloids all over the world? Who’d have imagined that three weeks after their marriage she’d be living here in the country without him? He was one of the most sought after men in England…no, in the world…and she’d left him alone to fight his way through all of the women throwing themselves at him. Was she insane?

She tugged at her lower lip, wondering what Grandma Bellamy would say to this. What words of wisdom would she have so that Marisol would know what to do? Could her sweet, practical English grandmother even imagine the life Marisol had married into?

In one of the little cubbyholes at eye level a couple of envelopes stuck out farther than the rest. Tilting her head, Marisol was surprised to see her own name. She pulled out a letter, addressed to Marisol Hemingway in Sonoma, California. Behind it, there was a second letter addressed to Margo. A pair of letters to her granddaughters that she hadn’t had the chance to mail?

Marisol’s heart pounded and her head swam as she opened the envelope addressed to her and extracted the pages filled with her grandmother’s spidery handwriting. Four pages! Four pages of words from Grandma Bellamy’s pen and heart. There could not be a more exquisite Christmas present than this. Fingers trembling, she unfolded the pages and began to read:

 

02 February, 1966

_My darling granddaughter,_

_How lovely it was to speak with you on the phone this afternoon and to hear your sweet baby babbling in the background. I’ve been thinking about you all day and have the strangest feeling that I need to put pen to paper to tell you how dear you are to me and let you know some of the other thoughts that have been whirling around in this silly old lady’s head._

_It was the strangest thing—The doorbell rang just after we said goodbye, so I was still thinking about you when I opened the door to find Paul McCartney standing there with his arms full of groceries._

_As you know I’m one to say what I think, so I said to him, “I don’t know all the details but I know you caused my granddaughter a great deal of heartache. Why on earth are you standing on my doorstep in a snow storm?”_

_There he stood with his red nose and the snow clinging to his eyelashes. “Mrs. Bellamy,” he said, “if I could take back every tear she’s ever cried I would.”_

_I gave him the grandmother glare for a long moment before I relented and said, “Young man, you may be the worst boyfriend on God’s earth, but you have the saddest hangdog eyes I’ve ever seen. Come in out of the weather, for the love of Pete.”_

_We went through to the kitchen and Paul said his step mother had turned up with several loaves of homemade bread, more than he could eat, and he’d thought of me. He’d brought a couple of loaves of the bread and a pot of vegetable soup from an Italian restaurant. I looked it all over and said “we may as well have tea then” and he sat right down, quick as could be._

_“I wanted to thank you for all the meals you cooked for me,” he said, followed by “I wanted to make sure you weren’t snowed in out here.”_

_All of that was hogwash because the moment he sat down he started in asking questions about you._

_Is she still in California? When did you last see her? Do you think she’ll ever move back to England? Is she seeing anyone? Does she ever mention me?_

_I turned around from the stove and said “What is all this?”_

_And he said with a voice as earnest and sincere as a parish priest, “I can’t stop thinking about your granddaughter. Every time I would put my arms around her I felt like I was home. Losing her is the biggest mistake of my life. It smacked me awake. I don’t want to be sat here missing her for the next 20 years, or 40 years, or however many there are.”_

_As you can imagine, I didn’t know what to say to any of that. All I know is you have made the decision not to tell him about Melody and your parents agree with that decision, so whatever happened between you, it must be something you feel is unforgivable._

_With that in mind, I gave him the “tut” as I thought about what you would want me to say. He had no response to the tut. He simply sat looking miserable._

_I finally said “Well, I don’t know about all that. I can tell you that she has moved on, and you need to do the same.”_

_There he sat, with the most miserable look I’ve ever seen, and finally he said, “She won’t take my calls or answer my letters. I’ve thought about showing up at her door but I keep picturing her father waving a shotgun at me like some typical American lunatic.”_

_“I wouldn’t recommend showing up at the door,” I said quickly. Marisol dear, I hope you’ll understand that I only took down his phone number to keep him from doing something as potty as that. I told him I’d send it to you but please do not misconstrue. I am on your side, dear, whatever you decide, but after his visit I couldn’t help thinking about what I saw when the two of you were together._

_I can’t help remembering how much laughter there was, and how he healed your heart and made you smile again. I remember the way he looked at you and how clearly he adored you. I remember the two of you on the telephone at all hours, the way you never seemed to run out of things to say. The way he would light up like Harrod’s Christmas tree when you walked into a room._

_I remember one night the two of you were watching a comedy show on the telly. You threw back your head with a loud, hearty laugh. I looked over and saw that Paul wasn’t watching the show. Instead, his doting, blissful gaze was locked on you._

_Now I know how hard relationships can be. When we were first married and living in London, your grandfather used to spend far too much time down at the Horse and Hound. It got so bad I would have to lock him out and he’d stand under the window bellowing “Ain’t Misbehavin” until the neighbors yelled and threw pitchers of water on him and I had to go down in my night shirt and let him in. All that with three babies asleep in their cots, can you imagine?_

_We had our ups and downs, but we never ran out of things to say and he never stopped making me laugh. I can’t help seeing the similarities when I think about you and Paul._

_Back to Paul. He looked so heavyhearted. Seems to me he’s forever chasing the family he lost. I wonder if you’ve considered forgiving him for whatever it is he’s done and reaching out to him, to see if you could make things work for the sake of the baby? You never know how fortunes can change, or how much time you have left._

 

At this, Marisol brought her hand to her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes. It was almost as if Grandma Bellamy knew this could be the last letter she’d ever write. “Oh Grandma,” she whispered, returning to the page.

 

_You certainly don’t need a man in your life, but having one around gives one lots to laugh about. And to write about. When Melody gets a little older, I’m hoping you’ll find your way back to the things you loved, like writing. The crux of who you are._

_The thing is, love, just as there is a big gap between how you think you are supposed to be and how you actually are, there is also a gap between how people expect their lives to turn out and how they actually do._

_There are no guarantees in love, or in life. We all have to decide where to put our money on the roulette table._

_If you keep calm and keep your spirits up, things have a habit of turning out all right in the end—just as they did for me, because having my grandchildren was the best thing that ever happened to me._

_I’m not sure when I’ll get this letter in the mail as the weather is taking a turn for the worse. You are very special to me, my dear granddaughter. I can’t wait to see all of you soon. Write soon and ring me up when you can!_

_Love and kisses from Old Blighty!_

_xxxx_

 

“Mama? Juice, mama!”

Marisol gasped and blinked away from the letter to see her toddler standing next to the desk, gazing up at her. Dropping the last page, Marisol covered her face with her hands, rubbing at her eyes.

“Mama?” Melody said, sounding fretful.

“I’m not crying,” Marisol said quickly. She slid off the chair onto her knees and opened her arms. Melody hesitated, unsure. “Hug? Hug for mama?” Marisol coaxed.

Her baby walked into her arms and Marisol held her tight. “I miss your daddy so much right now,” she whispered. “We need to figure this out. We need to go home.”

 

*

 

Later that night, with Melody tucked in bed, the muse was strong. Marisol had longed for advice from Grandma Bellamy, and by some bizarre circumstance, she’d received it. She’d made up her mind. Home was where she and Melody belonged. Home, wherever Paul was. When she got there, she would gently persuade him to look for a place in the country when his album was finished. He’d already promised as much. Until then, they would figure it out together.

The words flowed from her pen, paragraph after paragraph.

 

_“Flying solo is like falling in love; you dream of it beforehand, you savor it when it happens, and you remember it the rest of your life.”_

 

Outside the whining of a car engine drew closer, closer, then suddenly cut off. A car door slammed. Marisol scrambled to her feet. It was almost midnight, and Paul never parked his fancy DB6 in front of the cottage to draw attention to them. But it had to be friend rather than foe out there in the weather, since Beau and Cookie weren’t concerned. They whimpered at the front door, tails wagging.

The door burst open and there stood Paul, dark hair tousled, coat askew, shirt hanging out of his trousers. Those dark eyes she loved, stabbed with pain.

“What on earth?” Marisol said, her heart skipping a beat with some unnamed dread.

“Have you heard the news?” Paul ran a hand over the back of his neck and staggered into the house like a drunkard. His eyes were red-rimmed, a stark contrast to the paleness of his face.

“What news? What’s going on?” She clutched her dressing gown closed at her throat, as if she could protect herself from whatever had her husband in such a state.

“It’s Tara,” Paul said, his voice strained. “He’s gone.”


	37. Chapter 37

 

 

“What do you mean Tara’s gone?” Marisol said shakily. “Gone back to Ireland?”

Paul blinked at her. “He’s gone, Marisol. He’s dead. Dead and gone.”

She threw a hand over her mouth. “How? Oh my god, was it...an overdose?”

“What? Chrissakes, Mari. Why would you even ask that?” He closed his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. “He wrecked the car.”

Marisol’s eyes filled with tears. “Was he alone?”

“Suki was in the car. Barely a scratch on her. Mike’s been to see her. A Volkswagen pulled out in front of them and Tara jerked the wheel so that he took the impact. It saved her life.”

A flood of emotions swept over her—shock and sadness at the loss of someone she knew and cared about, a flash of relief that her beloved Paul hadn’t been in the car with him this time, followed by guilt at feeling any sort of relief at a time like this. “That is…that is so like Tara.”

Paul stood silently while she embraced him and kissed his face and slid his coat off his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“I need a drink.”

“I’ll open some wine—“

“It’s not a bloody hen party,” he said, staggering into the room. I need a _drink_!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll look for something stronger. Let’s get you on the couch.” Linking her arm through his, she sat him down. He immediately flopped over on his side and brought his knees up to his chest. Cookie jumped on top of his feet and Marisol pushed her off.

She slid the quilt off the back of the couch and spread it over him before ushering Cookie and Beau into the kitchen. The dogs stood staring at her, their tails in constant motion, probably thinking it was time to party now that Paul was here.

She pointed at their beds by the door and told them to lie down. Then she took stock of her alcohol situation. There was red wine or white wine. Paul would have to deal with it. Her hands shook as she opened a bottle of Cabernet. She poured it into a glass and downed half of it. What an end to an utterly emotional day. Truth be told, she’d like to dissolve in a puddle of tears and red wine and grieve for the sweet blonde boy who a couple of months ago wrapped his scarf around her neck because she’d fancied it. How could someone so full of life be gone so young?

Taking a fortifying breath and another gulp of wine, she reigned in her emotions. She’d deal with her feelings later, alone, in a hot bath with more wine. Her husband needed for her to be the strong one tonight.

Back in the living room, she set two glasses on an end table. Paul was lying perfectly still with his eyes closed.

“We used to get in cars and drive to Staffordshire to look for UFOs,” he said in a hushed voice. “Last spring it was. Tara and Our Kid Mike and me, sometimes Suki. All of us, just lying on a hillside, looking up at the sky. We’d stay up all night, then we’d drive back to London.”

“That’s a beautiful memory.” Marisol knelt in front of him and stroked his hair.

“He rented two 707s and flew everyone to Ireland for his twenty-first last summer. Mike was there. I should have been there. We were finishing _Revolver_. I’m always in the middle of some shit, y’know? Who’d have thought it was his last birthday, for chrissake.”

“I’m sure he understood.”

“He was twenty-one. Christ. Twenty-one. And a more loyal friend I’ve yet to meet.”

Marisol gulped back a sob. “I know sweetheart. It’s a tragedy. Will the funeral be in Ireland, or—”

He opened his eyes, and the color seemed to drain from his face. “I can’t go to any funeral. I can’t be there with all those people sobbing and shit. I can’t deal with that.”

Marisol let her hand drop to her lap. She’d never seen Paul look so frightened before. “It’s okay, love. We’ll send flowers and a card. You could call his mum…”

Paul threw back the quilt and sat up, looking around. “Where’s that drink?”

“Cabernet, it’s all I had.” She pointed to the table beside him.

He downed it in one gulp. The he picked up her glass and gulped it down too. He blinked, took a deep breath and stared at her.

“I can’t do this any more. I need you.”

“Okay.”

“No, I mean I need you to come home.”

“I need that too,” she said softly.

“I promise things will be different.”

She nodded. “Okay.” She smiled tentatively at him.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, then pushed them through his hair, leaving it standing up in places.

“I got the news about Tara, and I started thinking about what I want out of life. What sort of life I want for our daughter. When this weather clears we can start looking for a bigger place outside London. With land where we can have horses. Girls like horses, don’t they?”

“Yes, definitely,” Marisol nodded vigorously.

Paul patted the couch beside him and Marisol slid down beside him. The floodgates were open now. He was full of words and promises. But she could tell that he was sorry for the way things had been for her in London. That he wanted to make things right. She could see it in the lines on his forehead, wrinkled in earnestness. She could see it in the intensity of his honeyed, hazel eyes. And he wasn’t even trying to take her clothes off for once. She’d already decided to move back to London, but it wasn’t unpleasant to see Paul beg for something for a change.

“Meanwhile, I’ve asked Mal to move in with me…with us,” he continued. “Mal needs a place in London, and we need security.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in concentration. “And I’ve thought of something else. Who was that friendly older woman who used to take care of your sister’s house when she lived in London?”

“Rosie?”

“Yes, that’s the one. You liked her, and she was great with kids. What about Rosie?”

“That’s actually a really good idea…”

“And another thing. Is Angela happy where she lives?”

Marisol’s eyes widened. “I don’t see how she could be, it’s bloody freezing in her flat.”

“Why don’t you see if she’ll move in with us, as a sort of au pair, to help with Melody so we could go out if we want, and to be there with you when I’m at work.”

She blinked at him. “You’ve really been giving this a lot of thought.”

“Please come home.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him. “Sounds like it’s going to be a full house.”

He reached for her hand. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’d already decided to come home long before you got here tonight.”

Frowning, he said, “Then why did you let me go on like this?”

She looked down at her lap, smiling to herself. “It seemed like you needed closure.”

“Come here,” he said, pulling her in for a kiss. With their lips pressed together, he laid back on the couch, bringing her with him. She was enveloped in his familiar tobacco woodsy smell, the smell of home.

He broke the kiss and angled his body so they were face to face on their sides and Marisol was pressed into the back of the sofa.

“I love you every day more. Which every day before I would've found it very hard to imagine but it's true.”

“I feel the same way.” She closed her eyes, puckering her lips for more of his drugging kisses.

“Besides,” he said, playing with her hair, “you’re the best shag in town.”

Her eyes flew open. “I’d rather not hear how you know that.”

“You look different,” he said, studying her face.

“From this morning?”

“You look relaxed.”

“It was an interesting afternoon.”

He propped himself up on an elbow, giving her his full attention. “Tell me.”

“I thought I smelled Grandma Bellamy’s perfume, very strong.”

His eyes went distant, considering. “I’ve had that sensation before, about my mum.”

“And then I found a letter she wrote to me, that she never mailed.”

Paul’s eyes flashed back to hers. “Seriously?”

Nodding, Marisol looked down, toying with the top button on Paul’s purple paisley shirt. She blinked at the fullness behind her eyes, not wanting to end up in tears. “It sounded like she wanted us to be together.”

Paul’s hand stilled on her hair. “Oh, I see. Grandma Bellamy finally approves. So you think you might take a chance on me.”

“We do have her blessing,” she admitted, bringing her gaze back to his.

He looked different too. He looked completely sure of what he wanted, and it was her. But he didn’t feel different. They kissed their way upstairs to the bedroom, dropping clothes along the way. As they lay down on the bed, their bodies instinctively curled into each other, their silhouettes softening and reconciling. The nerve-ends on her fingertips instantly recognized the feel of his skin.

His scent hovered over her face, intoxicating her. “I love you, my beautiful wife,” he said, the deep chords of his words prickling her skin.

Her memory flashed back to the first time she’d heard that voice. Mistaking her for a fan writing on his van, he’d crept up behind her and said directly in her ear, “I…love…Paul.”

She’d jumped, startled. But that voice. It had sounded like the first notes of a melody she would seek out for the rest of her life, to sing along to. Neither of them could have known how that first meeting would set off a chain of events which would both shatter and soften their souls.

“I…love…Paul,” she whispered, and he stopped kissing her neck and leaned over her, smiling.

“I know you do.”

Their eyes met, and they shared a tender look that spoke of loss and love and new beginnings. It had taken three years to find a way to weave their lives together. She never wanted to be apart from him again.

“Take me home with you,” she said softly.

“Always,” he said, reaching over with one arm to turn out the bedroom lamp.


	38. Chapter 38

“Paul, might we have a word? Paul, a moment of your time please?”

The instant Paul steered the DB6 into the drive, a small group of reporters and cameramen sprang into action, surrounding the driver’s window, wielding microphones and cameras, pushing ahead of a small group of fans.

“Bloody hell. What now,” Paul muttered, fixing a pleasant look on his face as he rolled down the window. “All right lads?”

The questions came rapid fire as the cameras clicked and whirred. “Is it true you’re living apart? Has Mrs. McCartney moved out? Are you married in name only?”

Paul pretended to consider the question. “That’s a soft question. Have you seen my wife? Why would it be in name only?”

“The fans say Mrs. McCartney has moved out.”

“No no no, everything’s great. We’ve only been enjoying a little time in the country. As together as ever. There’s no story here lads.”

“Can we have a shot of the happy family, Paul?”

“Course you can. Contact Mr. Epstein to set something up. We’re not having an ad hoc photo shoot on the pavement, if that’s what you’re asking. Now if you’ll excuse us, we just got home you see, and we have a baby who needs looking after.”

“How do you feel about Tara Browne’s death?”

Paul huffed out a breath. “Tara was a friend of mine, how do you think I feel?”

He rolled up the window, muttering, “bloody press twats.” Then he took his frustration out on the horn, startling everyone around the car, inside the car, and probably more than a few neighbors. Seconds later, the gate opened.

“Wait a sec,” Marisol said, her hand covering Paul’s on the gear shift. A petite blonde girl was rapping on the passenger window, a pleading expression on her face. Marisol rolled down the window halfway and the other girls crowded around, bending down and calling to Paul, reaching across Marisol and Melody to try and touch him. A half dozen worshippers in various stages of puberty, desperately searching for happiness in four boys from Liverpool who they didn’t know, could never know, and who would never return the adoration.

Melody made a sound of distress and twisted around, stretching her arms out to her daddy. Paul pulled her onto his lap and the cameras flashed like heat lightning. “Paul! Look this way! Just one shot of the baby, Paul!”

“Please,” cried the blonde fan Marisol had first noticed, now pressed up against the glass. “Can I give you something?”

Marisol nodded and the fan pushed a tissue wrapped package through the half-opened window. Marisol brushed aside the tissue to find three woven Christmas stockings, embroidered at the top with names. Each stocking had a different motif. Paul’s was decorated with a guitar and musical notes. Marisol’s had little cartoon dogs dressed in green and red vests, and Melody’s featured a jack-in-the-box and colorful blocks.

“Sorry it’s so late,” the girl shouted over the melee. “They took me weeks to make.”

“These are incredible! I love them!” Marisol held up one of the stockings for Paul to see. “Look, sweetheart. They’re handmade.”

Paul glanced at the stocking, smiled, and looked at the girl. “What’s your name, love?”

“I’m called Bev,” said the girl, breathless, wide-eyed and smitten.

Paul gave her a grin and thumbs up. “Ta, Bev. S’lovely.”

Bev made a little yelp like a puppy that had its tail stepped on.

Marisol waved another thanks as Paul sped through the open gate into the courtyard.

Mal Evans was instantly at the passenger door, holding it open for Marisol and beaming at her. “Welcome home love. The phone’s been ringing off the hook for you.”

“For me?”

“Loads of Christmas party invitations and that, you know. I’ve made a list for ya.”

“Mal, give a hand with the luggage and all that baby crap, there’s a good lad. And then would you mind making a trip to Sussex in the Mini to collect the dogs? And then you can head home for Christmas.” Paul was already halfway to the door with Melody hunched on his shoulder, both hands over her ears to block the screams from the front gate.

"There's a present for you and your wife under the tree, Mal, and something for each of the kids." Marisol smiled at Paul's long-suffering right-hand man. "Tell everyone Merry Christmas from us. I don't know what we would do without you."  
Mal turned positively pink at hearing this bit of rare praise. “Thank you, love. Happy Christmas.”

 

The dining room table was overflowing with mail, including large brown envelopes forwarded from Brian’s office bursting with more invitations to parties and events.

Paul came up behind her just as Marisol heaved out a sigh. “We need a social secretary for all this, Paul.”

“Don’t bother with the mail, love. Come upstairs, I want you to hear a song.”

He gazed at her fondly, holding out his hand, and Marisol took it. Her handsome, brilliant husband had a song he wanted her to hear. She would deal with the mail later. Or maybe never. Everything else could wait.

 

A week later, they woke up to a world gone white. It was Christmas Eve, and the house was full to bursting. Mike McCartney was dispatched to buy Melody her first pair of snow boots. He returned with a pair several sizes too big that reached past her knees, which hardly mattered because Melody refused to walk in the snow.

“It’s not sand, Mel, you can do this,” Marisol coaxed. She began lowering the child by the armpits.

“I’ll take her,” Paul said. “C’mon, Mel. Stand on your feet.”

“D’you remember that year it snowed and snowed on Christmas?” Mike said, blowing cigarette smoke into the frigid air.

“I do.” Paul turned to Marisol. “I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”

“Remember those sugar fags we had? You’d put one in your mouth and wait on the corner for hours for an old lady to scold you for smoking, just so you could eat it with a smirk on your face.”

“Aunt Mari! Can we use this for our snowman?” Lucy and Sophie trudged by with a long grey knitted scarf, one end tangling on a dormant rose bush. Lucy gave a yank to free it.

“Oi, Luce, where did you get that scarf? One of my girls gave—”

“It’s fine,” Marisol said, interrupting her husband. “He has about sixty more of them. He has hundreds of pairs of knickers too if you want to make a snow woman.”

Mike laughed. Paul didn’t. At first it was funny when the fans gave him knickers, but it had grown tiresome, especially after Marisol started teasing him that he had more knickers than any woman she knew.

“Go out in the middle there and see if Mel will come to you.” Paul said to the girls. He set Melody on her feet in the snow, where she stood with her arms out for balance, refusing to move in her pink puffy snowsuit and fuzzy pompom hat.

“Walk by yourself, Mel,” said Paul.

“No no Dada!”

But the call of her cousins was irresistible and Melody started across the garden after them. After a few steps she looked back at her huge footprints.

“People will think there’ve been hippos!” Paul said. He motioned for his brother to give him a cigarette.

Cookie scampered by and knocked Melody down, but she got right back up and trailed after the older girls, leaving her parents smiling at each other.

“Our first white Christmas,” Marisol said, leaning against her husband.

Paul wrapped his arms around her. “Our first Christmas together full stop. We get to make our own traditions.”

“What should we do then? Christmas caroling?”

“We used to go Christmas caroling,” Mike mused. “Paul with his trumpet. People would pay us money to go away. That’s how my dear brother first took an interest in the financial side of the music business.”

“Very funny. Hadn’t you better be off to fetch the arl fella from the train station?”

“Haven’t you got people for that?”

“You are my people. The others have gone home for Crimble.”

“Hey rock star!” Margo shouted from the back door. “There’s a man here with some pieces of an airplane welded together, says you ordered it…”

Paul’s face lit up. “My Takis! My Takis is here!”

“Your what?”

 

When Marisol next saw her husband, he was tripping out in the music room, strumming a guitar under the glow of some sort of sculpture made from two flashing aircraft lights, one red and one green, welded to tank antennas.

“Is that some sort of burglar alarm?” She set down a tray with a cheese and tomato toastie and a bottle of fizzy orange soda.

Paul stopped strumming. “That, my love, is art.”

“It looks like old military junk.”

“Exactly. And now it’s a work of beauty.” He took a swig of the pop and gave her a kiss that tasted of oranges. “Thanks for lunch.”

“I thought maybe you were trying to avoid the in-laws.”

“Not at all. I was thinking about this sculpture. Turning military paraphernalia into objects of beauty, right? It has an appeal to the anti-materialistic, anti-military sixties generation. And our new album is going to be called Sgt. Pepper. John and I were talking about taking some old military uniforms and turning them into psychedelic costumes. What do you think?”

“Do you mean you’ll tour again?” Marisol held her breath, waiting for his response.

“I don’t know about that. We think of ourselves as artists more than performers lately, y’know? But we’ll do promotional videos and the like.”

“Well I think it sounds magical. Like a concept album or something.”

“Yes, love, you’re on to it. All this Christmas in the air has me thinking of northern memories. Brass bands. I’m thinking of a brass band.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

 

Marisol spent the afternoon catching up on family gossip with her mother and Margo while her father napped in front of the television.

Every time the buzzer went off, Mrs. Hemingway got up and answered it patiently. “We are having our cocktails now, love. Please don’t press the button again. My son-in-law will come out and visit when he has a moment. Unless you press that button again. Then he won’t.”

She clicked off the speaker and resumed her position on the sofa. “And that’s how you handle them, Marisol. You are the mistress of this house.”

“Don’t put up with any shit from the fans,” Margo added.

“Swearing is for people who lack imagination,” said Mrs. Hemingway.

Lucy finished building a tower as tall as she was out of Melody’s blocks, then screamed bloody murder when Beau’s tail knocked it down.

Marisol organized a game of twister while Margo got up to fix herself another cup of tea laced with rum.

 

Late in the afternoon Mike arrived back at the house with Jim Mac and Paul’s stepmother Angie, and the in-laws were introduced for the first time.

“Put it there if it weighs a ton,” Jim announced, holding out his hand.

Everyone in Marisol’s family was charmed by Jim, whose underground humor and bubbling sense of fun ensured that in any tongue pulling contest he came out on top. He soon had them all beguiled with his McCartney family sayings sprinkled throughout the conversation:

“It’s no good having a dog and barking yourself”… “In goes your eye out” … and “every mickle makes a muckle.” If a joke failed: “It’ll go better second house”… And as the answer to an unknowable question: “Because there are no hairs on a seagull’s chest.”

Marisol was relieved to find her parents behaved themselves for the most part, it being Christmas and all. Her father and Jim McCartney amused each other greatly and soon bonded over horse racing. Angie never stopped talking. Marisol noticed her own mother shaking her head in bewilderment a few times over something random or bizarre Angie had said, but then, who didn’t?

Lucy and Sophie were friendly and welcoming to little Ruth, and the three of them spent their time dashing in and out of the house with the dogs and leaving muddy snow puddles on the kitchen floor that Marisol did her best to ignore.

They had a simple tea of soup and sandwiches followed by Jim’s rice pudding, a dessert he was very proud of, and rightly so. It was smooth and creamy and without any wrinkled skin on top.

“George Harrison loves Jim’s rice pudding,” Angie said. “He’s always asking for the recipe but Jim won’t give it to him.”

They binged on traditional English Christmas candies: hard-boiled, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers and marzipan.

Paul started a sing-along around the piano, after which everyone donned their winter coats for a classic London activity: a family walk to view the Christmas decorations in the store windows.

Because Jim needed to light his pipe and then walk along at a stately pace while he smoked it and Paul needed to have a long conversation with a homeless person who slept in a doorway and another with a woman who was having trouble finding her friend’s house, it was after ten when they arrived back at the house.

Mrs. Hemingway was most displeased to see fans still standing in front of the house at this late hour on Christmas Eve.

“What is this madness, ladies? My daughter is not having her home life disrupted by a gang of her husband’s wannabe sweethearts.”

“We can’t help it,” said a timid voice. “We love him.”

“Well you’re going to love him from the corner from now on. And by the way he’s happily married. This is how it’s going to be. You will wait at the corner, if you must, and my son-in-law will stop and visit with you when he leaves the house. Off you go now.”

Marisol watched a clump of girls walking away sadly.

“And that’s how it’s done, Marisol,” her mother said with a satisfied smile.

It was after midnight when Paul and Marisol finally had all the children and guests tucked in bed and found themselves alone in the master bedroom.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” said Paul, taking her hands and dancing her slowly around the room.

Marisol was ready to fall into bed exhausted, but Paul had other ideas it seemed.

“Shall we open our gifts to each other?”

“Now?”

Paul pointed to the ceiling. “Yours is upstairs.”

Marisol smiled. “Yours is under the tree. I’ll go get it.”

 

“Everyone’s always on about how you should be writing. I haven’t got time to do much painting, so I thought this room would make a good writer’s studio for you… you know, if that’s what you want?”

Paul opened the door to the little room at the top of the house and Marisol gasped. Her eyes instantly misted over. Paul’s easel and canvases and paints were moved to one side of the room. A cherry wood desk with a large red bow was situated under the only window, and resting on it was a top-of-the-line blue Smith Corona electric typewriter in a matching case.

“Oh, sweetheart! I love it!” She crossed the room and tested the keys. “This is incredible, the perfect gift!”

Paul seemed to love her gifts too, grinning as he opened the Accurist Old England watch with a black leather strap, engraved on the back with the words “Love of My Life.”

Next she handed him a large rectangular package wrapped in gold paper - a painting she’d commissioned from a photograph of Paul and Melody sitting at the piano, their dark heads together, identical focused expressions.

He looked down at the gift and back up at her and his eyes were wide and bright. “Thank you,” he said with a smile, and already his eyes were turning back to the painting. “For everything.”

“She looks so much like you,” Marisol murmured.

“Oh. Almost forgot.” Paul propped the portrait against the desk and pulled open the top drawer. He handed Marisol an 8 x 10 picture of a Piper Twin Comanche.

“What’s this? You didn’t…you couldn’t have…”

He laughed. “No, love. I didn’t buy you an airplane.” He tapped the photo. “Even better. I’ve found an instructor with a twin engine plane. That’s two engines, see there? In case one fails. That was my problem, you know, with you flying off in a single engine. I’ve done a lot of investigating, and I’ve found an RAF chap with a stellar record—“

He had to stop talking then because Marisol was covering his mouth with kisses.

 

It seemed like only hours later Paul was waking her up, crashing into the bedroom with Melody perched on his shoulder and shouting, “Santa Claus has been! Wake up, Mamacita, Santa’s been!”

Santa had indeed visited Cavendish Avenue, leaving Barbie dream doll houses for all three of the older girls and an old-fashioned wooden doll house with rooms full of wooden furniture for Melody.

After Paul’s shouting about Santa, everyone in the house was awake and stumbling about the living room with mugs of tea and coffee and plates of scones.

Marisol was shocked to see her mother on her hands and knees showing Melody how to arrange all the little pieces of furniture in the multi-room house. She couldn’t remember her mother ever getting down on her hands and knees to play. It was amazing, really, what having grandchildren had done to her parents.

Paul kept checking his new watch, and shortly before eight he said he needed to make a few phone calls. Fifteen minutes later there was a buzz at the front gate which sent Paul scurrying around letting the dogs and cats into the back garden before racing around to the front. He came back inside bearing a large cardboard box with a removable lid and a pink bow on top.

“Mel! Look what Santa’s brought!” He carefully set the box in the middle of the living room and placed Melody on his lap in front of it. Suddenly the lid flew off by itself and a bundle of excessive energy and white and grey fur and pink tongue burst out of the box.

“What have you done?” Marisol said, wringing her hands as the little beast charged around the room, upending beverages and tripping children and nearly toppling the Christmas tree. “We have two dogs and a half dozen cats! What were you thinking?”

Paul stopped grinning long enough to flash her a look of hurt. “We don’t have a puppy, Marisol. Do you want our child to grow up without a puppy?”

“She’s not even two!”

“So much for the doll house we shipped halfway around the world,” said Mrs. Hemingway before excusing herself and going into the kitchen.

Margo snatched a mug of tea from the edge of an end table seconds before the puppy sent it smashing to the floor. “Girls, fetch one of your ribbons. She can’t see where she’s going for the hair hanging in her eyes.”

Marisol plopped down beside her husband, resignation in her voice. “What on earth is it, anyway?”

“She’s an Old English sheepdog. Like the one in the Dulux paints ads in the Sunday colour supplements.”

“But that one’s three years old and perfectly groomed and house trained.”

“Give her time, love. She’ll be the best dog a girl could ask for.”

“She’s just like Nana in Peter Pan!” said Sophie, returning with a pink ribbon.

“Peter Pan. You don’t say.” Marisol gave her husband a long-suffering look.

Once the puppy’s hair was tied up out of her eyes, she did less bouncing off the furniture and concentrated on licking every warm-blooded entity in sight.

“She really is the most cuddly dog,” Paul explained. “That’s why I…that’s why Santa and I chose her. What shall we name her, Mel?” he said, corralling the dog as she made another pass through the center of the room.

“Mar mah mah,” Melody sputtered, recovering from a well-placed lick of a bubble gum pink tongue across her face.

“Martha it is!” Paul exclaimed.

The rest of the morning was a blur of discarded wrapping paper and delighted squeals over presents and a mix of giggling and groaning at Martha’s antics. Even Paul seemed surprised at how much work it took to keep this fifteen pound creature from destroying the house. It wasn’t his worry though, so he soon moved on to the next interesting thing.

Jim, who never appeared at breakfast without a collar and tie, was playing Christmas carols on the piano, crossing one hand over the other with joy in his heart, and Paul and Mike joined in to harmonize.

Marisol’s mother made a feast for all with very little help, those Julia Child lessons evident. Angie went out of her way to be helpful and friendly.

They pulled crackers and wore the paper crowns and watched the Queen on television, because Jim wanted to.

Jim unwrapped the Havana cigar his sons bought him every Christmas, rolled it in his fingers to feel the leaf, clipped it with a cigar cutter, spit the end out into the hearth and then lit up until smoke filled the house, causing Marisol’s mother to cough and fan the air before retiring to the kitchen to check on the Christmas pudding with five-pence pieces hidden in it.

Jim, with his cigar still blazing, went off to “take his constitutional.” Marisol’s father joined him to work up an appetite for pudding. Before he left he threatened the girls at the gate so harshly they took their leave for the rest of the afternoon.

Then, while the patriarchs were having their walk, Marisol’s mother found Paul in the dining room rolling a joint and there was a bit of a row.

“I can’t believe you’d indulge your drug habit in front of the children,” she said.

“I’d hardly describe the occasional spliff as a drug habit,” he said.

“Please take that business outside while the children are here.”

“Whose house is it we’re in, Marlene? And I don’t see any children around.”

As if by magic, Lucy appeared in the doorway, accompanied by Marisol, both of them following the sound of raised voices and wondering what was the matter.

“Lucy darling, go watch International Velvet.” Marlene pointed at the door.

“I’ve already seen it, Mimi. A hundred times.” Lucy plopped down at the table, watching Paul.

“C’mon, Marlene, do you honestly believe their own mother doesn’t fire up the occasional joint?”

“Not on your life.”

“Mommy only smokes those funny smelling cigarettes when Daddy is away flying for the war,” Lucy offered helpfully.

Paul made his I-told-you-so face.

“Can we talk about this later?” Marisol suggested. “Let’s all calm down and play charades.”

With a huff, Marlene led Lucy out of the room.

“How long are they staying again?” Paul said to Marisol.

“Paul, be nice. She’s only—“

“Be nice? Whose house is this?”

“I know sweetheart. I know she’s difficult…”

She trailed off as Margo appeared in the doorway. “Which one of you told Mother I have a drug habit?”

Paul rolled his eyes and grabbed a wool coat and stalked outside to spend some alone time in his “meditation dome.”

 

Marisol was standing in the dining room wondering if this day would ever end when Angie walked in with a beatific smile and patted her on the arm. “Dear, your house is a dream. I don’t know how you do it. You’ve decorated the tree and the house perfectly and opened all the rooms and made us all so comfortable, and you’ve chosen the loveliest presents. The Oxford English Dictionary is perfect for Jim, you know he’s never without a crossword puzzle in his hands. Paul could have searched the whole world over and never have found a more perfect bride than you are.”

And with that, Marisol’s eyes welled with tears and she enveloped her stepmother-in-law in a warm hug. “Thank you, Angie. I needed that.”

Then she grabbed her own coat and slipped out the back door.

Paul was lying in the middle of the big round bed in the meditation dome. With every pane of glass completely covered by snow, it had the feel of a large igloo in an Arctic outpost. Paul inexplicably had a red bow on his forehead, and he was giggly now with the smell of pot lingering around him. Marisol pushed the lever that sent them into the sky, then somersaulted onto the bed next to her husband.

“Hello love. Ready for the biggest present of all?” Paul grinned as he took the bow off his forehead and stuck it over the zipper of his trousers. He laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world and Marisol couldn’t help joining in.

“Always,” she said, snaking her arm around his waist and cuddling close.

“Merry Christmas my love,” he said, and kissed her slowly, deliberately, coaxing and enticing, while he unbuttoned her coat.

“This meditation dome may have been the best decision you ever made,” she said, slipping her hand inside the front of his trousers.

“No love,” he said, and kissed the tip of her cold nose. “You are the best decision I ever made.”

And Marisol couldn’t argue with that.


	39. Chapter 39

 

_Dear Diary,_

_What will 1967 hold for my little family?_

_So far 1967 has brought a daughter who talks nonstop and is into everything (along with her new puppy), a husband who works hard and loves hard, and a worldwide press who can’t seem to get enough of the three of us. The good news is, I’m surrounded by people I love: Angela, Mal, our new housekeeper Rosie. Even with all the craziness outside our walls, life inside is very, very good._

_This afternoon while I was changing Melody’s diaper I told her Mommy and Daddy were going on a date tonight. I wasn’t sure she was even listening. She gets so distracted every time a furry tail passes by. Then at tea she looked up at me and said “And Mellzie?” That’s what she calls herself so I said, “What’s that?” She said “And Mellzie…date?” For the last hour or so she’d probably been wondering if she was coming on the date too. I laughed and said no, she was having a date at home with Angela and Rosie._

_It’s a dream having Angela here. She’s so bonded with Melody. We came home the other day from some function and Angela was bubbly. “She’s so beautiful, she keeps trying to talk to me, she’s so sweet…oh, Marisol, you’re SO lucky!” All I could do was smile. Angela said Melody had fallen asleep in her arms, which she’d never done for me, so I asked, “Do you hold her up on your shoulder instead of across your lap?” At that point Melody scooted up on my shoulder, burrowed her face in my hair and started to hum. (As if to say, ’This is how you put me to sleep, silly mum’)_

_Our baby understands so much of what we say now. And she seems to love people. Paul insisted we spend part of the holidays with children who were in the hospital over Christmas. He said he wanted Melody to remember Christmas as a time to think about people less fortunate. We had to come armed with gifts, naturally._

_We stopped by Harrods, looming over Knightsbridge like an ocean liner bound for the North Pole. In the Christmas Grotto, Melody ran straight to Father Christmas and hugged him. She had watched him give a candy cane to another child and she said, “And Mellzie? And Mellzie too?”_

_We bought stuffed Lassie dogs for the younger kids and Lego building sets for the older ones. In the hospital a couple of nurses took us around to the children’s ward. Melody gave out the toys, saying “kew-kew welco” (thank you welcome) as she handed a toy to each child. If they didn’t take it right away she’d say it louder: “A KEW KEW WELCOME!” So I had to nip that obnoxious behavior in the bud right away._

_Paul got the urge to sing Christmas carols, and suddenly there were younger nurses coming out of the woodwork with stars in their eyes all giggling at Paul and no nurses left monitoring patients so we had to cut the visit short. The newspaper never found out about the hospital visit. They were too busy reporting on how I wore the same jeans three days in a row because my husband is mean._

_I don’t know what I’d do without Angela, because Melody is busy every minute she’s awake. While I was trying to get ready for “the date” she was jumping on the bed in her room with Martha and practically swinging from the curtains. One side of the curtains is already coming loose from the wall and I told her to stop it. Before I could get her off the bed, she fell and hit her head and the entire set of curtains fell down on top of her and the puppy, and Martha ripped a hole in one panel trying to get untangled. I didn’t comfort my poor little baby like I usually do because I was already annoyed that the curtains have to be replaced. She was screaming bloody murder so I just handed her off to her Daddy._

_Thirty minutes later we were heading out the door and I gave her a kiss and said “Sweetie, I’m sorry I fussed at you for…” I paused, getting my thoughts together, and Melody piped up “for a bump my head?” Yes, darling, that is why I was so angry. Because you bumped your head. It’s funny when you realize how children don’t even know what you’re fussing at them about half the time. They’re just busy loving life and being joyous. And she’s right, why should I give two shits about the curtains falling off the windows, when we are all safe and happy and healthy?_

_Life is good whether we have curtains or not. As a matter of fact, 1967 is coming in as a strong contender for the best year ever._

_xx_

 

They were twelve for dinner at Brian Epstein’s Chapel Street house. The Beatles and their wives, George Martin and his new wife Judy, and Mal Evans tagged along to make an even dozen.

John, Paul, George and Ringo disappeared early on, presumably to listen to a tape loop in John’s Rolls Royce. The others stood around Brian’s drawing room while Beethoven played softly from the state of the art sound system. The room was light and airy, Japanese silk on the walls, flower arrangements on every available surface.

“The creepiest fan letter I’ve gotten,” Cynthia was saying, “was from a girl who claimed to be living in our attic. She said John loved her and not me and if I touched him again she was going to murder me. The creepy part was, I went up in the attic to check and found a half dozen crisps wrappers scattered around that I know weren’t there before.”

Mo made a tutting sound. “You can’t read those rubbish letters. You just have to bin them.”

“You’d never get any peace at all if you read them,” Pattie added.

Marisol was only half listening. She’d been standing on the edge of the group when she overheard George Martin express concern to Brian about the state of John’s health. That was a far more interesting topic than fans eating crisps in the attic. She sidled over in front of the ornately carved fireplace, pretending to be mesmerized by an enormous painting of a man’s face.

“He’s adopted a new vegetarian diet,” Brian was saying.

“It’s more than that,” said Mr. Martin. “He smokes and drinks incessantly and he looks haggard. He shows up for work sometimes with his eyes glazed and his speech slurred.”

“Don’t worry about John,” said Brian. “He’s a survivor.”

The two men moved away and Marisol stood there for a moment, staring at the imposing painting, thinking about what she’d heard.

“Do you know him?”

She jumped a little, surprised to find Brian at her elbow.

“Pardon?”

Brian gestured at the painting with an elegant, manicured hand. “El Cordobes. The bullfighter?”

Marisol cocked her head. “Oh, is that who it is?”

“Wouldn’t it be marvelous to make a film about him?” Brian mused. He gave Marisol a sidelong glance. “Your grandfather was quite an aficionado of the art of bullfighting wasn’t he? I’ve read his book. The one set in Spain.”

“ _The Sun Also Rises_ ,” Marisol said. “Not my favorite. It’s so…full of death. He loved the country though.”

“I love Spain as well. It’s the only place where I take any exercise. Although you’re right. The people of Castile have such an interest in death. Not so the English and French. We live for life.” Brian adjusted his white gold cuff links. He checked his white gold watch. He removed a white gold lighter from the pocket of his exquisitely tailored trousers and fiddled with it a moment before putting it back. “There’s something I’d like you to see,” he said. “Come with me.”

To Marisol’s surprise, Brian led her downstairs and into a fully stocked wine cellar. It turned out he was very knowledgeable about wine and seemed to want to show off a bit. That was the reason Marisol thought he’d brought her to the wine cellar, until he removed a bottle from a lower shelf, blew off the dust, and said, “I’ve known Paul for years now. I’ve never known anyone quite so in love with performing. Do you ever wonder, what is the point of having these god-given talents if they’re not going to perform again?”

Marisol replaced the bottle she was holding and coughed a little. “They seem to be quite happy in the studio right now. From what I understand, touring has become quite impossible for them.”

“Paul could convince the boys to tour again if he wanted to. He’s quite manipulative. He can talk you into most anything and make you think it’s your own idea.”

Marisol bristled. Even if that were all true, this was her sweet husband they were talking about. The love of her life. She folded her arms across her chest, shutting down.

Brian tilted his head and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’ve been involved in the dramatic arts for years. I thought you should know that there are some people who grow addicted to the applause. Can’t live without it. You’ve married one of them.”

“Okay…well he seems to be doing just fine…”

Brain straightened his shoulders. “No, quite right. It seems you’ve given him the security he’s always wanted. It practically emanates from him in waves now he’s married with a family.” He replaced the bottle and selected another one. “I don’t feel tycoonish tonight. Let’s enjoy an evening of delicious food and drink and good company.”

Marisol was saved from blurting out anything else by the sound of Domenico’s voice over the intercom. “Dinner is served, Sir.”

The boys were back, quite giggly from whatever loops they’d been listening to in John’s Rolls Royce, and smelling strongly of hashish.

As they started dinner, Brian looked around the table and said, “Now, everyone, at the end of the meal I want you to pass your napkin rings to Paul and Marisol, because you’ll notice on them…” He broke off with a pleased look of anticipation, as everyone admired the twelve sterling silver rings, each engraved with a little “M.”

“Thank you, Brian, that was a lovely thing to do,” Marisol said.

Paul winked at her. She looked down, spreading her napkin on her lap. Brian was a lovely man, generous and imaginative. And impulsive. As for the conversation in the wine cellar, he was worried about his boys, no doubt, and his place in their lives. He’d only just come back from Wales where he’d been recovering from some sort of glandular fever. Or maybe, as the wives whispered, he was being treated for severe depression at the thought of his boys not needing him any more.

 

The food and wine were indeed delicious. As night fell over London, the atmosphere inside the Belgravia home was warm and convivial, for the most part. At one point a song by the late Alma Cogan began to play and John scraped his chair over the marble tiles, threw down his napkin and changed the record to a flamenco guitar piece.

 

John was in rare form after dinner, continuing to toss back the scotch. Everyone was gathered around the sofa chatting when John walked up and said, “I’ve just realized I’m god.”

The others ignored him but Marisol was intrigued. “Do you mean to say you’re _‘a’_ god?”

“No, I’m God,” John said. “With a capital G.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because I’ve discovered when I pray I’m only talking to myself.”

Cynthia said, “Oh shut up John” and turned her back to him. Marisol was starting to notice their relationship had taken a turn for the worse lately.

 

Then George Harrison was in a bit of a huff. He’d been peacefully sitting under a tree in the parkland of the school next to Kinfauns on the only sunny afternoon of the past week, and a school watchman had run him off.

George had said, “All I want to do is look at the trees” but the man threw him out, and George was still stewing over it. Marisol suspected his dismay was heightened by whatever drug he was on at the time of the tree incident, but be that as it may, George said he was going to buy his own parkland one day and then he’d look at the trees all he wanted.

“Poor Geo. Do you want to get out your knitting and talk about your feelings?” John quipped.

“Shut up, Lennon,” George said with a scowl.

“Do you need a cuddle, George?” Ringo said, which nearly got a smile out of him. No one could ever be mad at Ringo.

Brian had a bookcase full of novels that soon attracted John’s attention. He thumped the spine of _Droll Stories_ and mentioned Mimi had a bookcase full of Balzac at home that had likely influenced his writing. At that point Judy Martin picked up Brian’s copy of John’s book In His Own Write. Liking what she read, she started to read it out loud. The sound of Judy Lockhart Smith Martin’s upper-crust accent, reading John Lennon’s nonsense words, made everyone fall around with laughter.

_“It were a small village, Squirmly on the Slug, and vile ruperts spread fat and thick amongst the inhabidads what lived there…things like this were getting Victor down, if not lower…”_

The boys were beside themselves, rolling about as these strange words came tripping off Judy’s silken tongue.

As so often happened when the four of them were together, the Beatles gravitated to each other and everyone else tended to remain on the sidelines. They slumped and sprawled leggily on Brian’s sofas, smoked incessantly and drank endless glasses of Scotch. Soon they settled into one of their long, rambling conversations.

Marisol squeezed in beside her husband. Smoke trickled out of the corners of his mouth as he spoke and she found it slightly arousing. Tucked under his arm, she sipped her Chardonnay and listened to snatches of Beatles’ conversation through a warm buzz. They could discourse about anything and everything, but they always returned to their first love.

 

“…I’ve got an opinion on most things, you know. I don’t think I’ve ever said no comment, not once, y’know…”

“…so I said, I’m sorry but you’re a fuckin’ liability and you’ve gotta fuckin’ go…”

“…it was Bertrand Russell who turned me against the Vietnam War…”

“…If there was gold medals for taking drugs for England, I’d have won a shit load by now…”

“…you have to have the experiences and then bring that into the music later…”

“…we can’t keep writing different versions of I love you so all the girls will scream, we’re artists now…”

“…it’s the transition from authoring the soundtrack of teenaged pandemonium to creating something more artistically substantial, if you see what I’m saying…”

“…and then, it was you, John, you said, ‘Come on! You can sing it better than that, come on man, really throw it!’”

“…it’s very difficult to play, it changes keys, goes up and down…”

“there’s that piano lick, you know, I envisioned it really swampy and smoky, like that…”

“…I think you can hear a whole song in one note, if you listen hard enough…”

 

And right in the middle of all this, John set down his drink and said, “Sod this, lads, let’s play some music,” and the four of them wandered off toward the stairs while Mal ran outside to get their guitars.

The atmosphere in the room changed the instant those four bigger-than-life personalities left.

As Marisol watched them go, she doubted if there was ever a moment in any of their lives when they weren’t palpably, obviously celebrities. They were just celebrities who had yet to do the things they were celebrated for.

Cyn gave an audible sigh.

Some of the girls shifted position and filled in the empty spots on the sofas.

“Do you know what Ritchie’s done now?” said Mo. “He’s building a go-kart track in the back garden.”

 

Brian took the opportunity to ask George Martin how the album was going. “The boys have been listening to Pet Sounds, as everyone has. The arrangements are so intriguing and clever. Can they do as well as that?”

“No,” Mr. Martin said, smiling. “We can do better.”

Brian seemed to have misgivings about the length of time the album was taking. “If they want to be random, at least be sure they’re organized about it.”

Mr. Martin said when the boys announced they were going into the studio for an indefinite period, he had some interesting and fairly taut discussions with the powers that be at EMI, who were understandably nervous about what would come of it all. “I reminded them the Beatles have never let us down. Whenever I’ve said, ‘Give them their heads, let them do different things,’ they’ve come up with things that were even better than the material they were doing before. And it’s always sold.”

“It’s always sold” seemed to satisfy Brian.

Pattie and Mo and Cyn talked about their families and their holidays and what their friends were up to (most of whom Marisol didn’t even know). She tried to take part, but the conversation between Brian and George Martin just so happened to be a lot more interesting. So she eavesdropped, intent on what they were saying, knowing she would quote large chunks of it to Paul on the way home, or later when they were curled up in bed. He loved when she repeated these purloined nuggets of praise about him. They were like an aphrodisiac to him.

Paul had the makings of a great composer, Mr. Martin was saying to Brian. A gift for melody that seems to spring from him without effort. Time and again he’d be thrilled to hear a lovely tune, with interesting harmonies, and he’d ask Paul where had that come from and Paul never knew.

John, on the other hand, liked to weave his weird and wonderful lyrics around two or three notes of a melody. His brilliance showed itself in the harmonies under the sometimes monotone composition, which completely transform what could have been boring into the magnificent.

John and Paul love each other, they really do, Mr. Martin observed. They shared an adventurous little ambition when they swirled their melodies together back in their Liverpuddles. They were going to conquer the world. And you could almost touch the rivalry between them, it is that intense. As soon as John comes up with an outstanding song, say, about his early childhood, like Strawberry Fields Forever, Paul answers him straight back with Penny Lane. Creative rivalry keeps them climbing their individual ladders and keeping the Beatles on top.

And don’t forget George Harrison, adding a whole new range of Indian instruments to the Beatles’ arsenal that will make their sound unlike anything else ever done before. He’s a dark horse, observed Mr. Martin. A one-off. He marches to the beat of a different drum. George is taking Beatles music in a direction that has nothing to do with his own background or culture. He is taking it east.

And Ringo, said Mr. Martin, although you might not realize it, is always listening. On the rare occasions Ringo says something like, “that’s crap, John,” everyone pays heed. John might make some rude comment back, but he never fails to change whatever it is Ringo doesn’t like.

In the middle of George’s remarks, Marisol turned her head and let her eyes fall on Brian’s face. He had a distant look in his eyes and a soft smile on his lips, and the distinct look of a man who desperately craved something he could never have.

 

Meanwhile, Judy must have gotten bored of listening to the girls talk about kids and fashion and who was shagging who, because she began asking Pattie all about transcendental meditation. Pattie had been to a meeting in London while the boys were on tour. It was life-changing, she said. You sit with your eyes closed, completely relaxed for twenty minutes, repeating your mantra, and it makes you feel calmer, more creative and focused. Pattie said right away she really did feel more alert and energetic.

“What’s your mantra word?” asked Mo.

“You’re not supposed to tell anyone,” Pattie patiently explained.

“Three girls at the salon went to one of those meetings and as soon as they got outside they told each other their mantras and they were all the same word, Om.”

Pattie’s eyes flashed. “It’s really bad karma to tell your mantra.”

Judy patted her knee. “Well. You must be doing something right with your karma, dear. You look positively glowing.”

 

Brian made his way upstairs, saying he needed to have a word with the boys, and soon afterwards Delmonico announced over the intercom, “The photographer has arrived, Sir.”

 

To ring in 1967, Brian had arranged for photographs to be made of the Beatles as a group and of each of them with their wives.

“Good thing I bought this little frock, isn’t it darling,” Marisol said to her husband, and he gave her an indulgent little smile before batting his big round eyes at the camera lens.

They’d had a bit of a row about her new maroon velvet and pearl mini dress earlier that day. Marisol had recently learned that her talent for dropping hundreds of pounds in an afternoon at the boutiques chilled Paul McCartney to the very depths of his being. Especially if he suspected it was his money being scattered about in such wretched excess, the poor darling.

Of course, it’s never easy for newlyweds to agree on how to spend their money. Marisol knew that. She tried to be frugal, but London was an insane distraction. She’d be making a beeline for Clarks for baby shoes but everywhere she looked there was something colorful and new. Shop windows filled with miniskirts in Smarties colors, slinky thigh-high boots, sequined gowns, brass earrings, a Bengali man on the sidewalk selling flowing scarves, a stall full of knockoffs of those big colorful plastic Biba bracelets. She had to suppress her natural urge to enter every one of those seductive shops or she’d never get anything done.

Occasionally, however, she did need to dress the part of the wife of one of the most famous and successful men in the world. And this darling velvet dress fit her perfectly…and there were shoes that matched…and her handbag was so getting so ratty looking…

Paul had taken one look at her struggling inside with her arms full of shopping bags and quipped “Alright love? Will we be needing to build a conveyer belt from Carnaby Street to our front door?”

Smart ass. It was mostly her own money anyway. And it wasn’t like she could wear the same old frumpy thing more than once without the press commenting on it.

Just last week a tabloid ran three pictures of her wearing her favorite jeans with different jumpers under her wool coat as she went about running errands and walking the dogs and taking Melody to the park.

“McCartney’s Wife Sports Tattered Jeans Three Days Running” screamed the headline followed by all three pictures side by side. Under a picture of her unlocking the Mini outside the grocers with her hair hiding most of her face were the words “Hemingway Heiress In Tears over Paul’s Frugal Ways!”

Marisol ranted about it at the breakfast table. “What’s tattered about these jeans? They’re stone washed!”

Angela shrugged and said, “So what. You wear the same jeans three days in a row. You should ring up the Sunday papers and say, ‘First of all, yes I did. And second of all, Fuck You, yes I did.’”

Marisol smiled at the memory of how Angela made her laugh at herself. The girl was a godsend. She was relaxed and nurturing and Paul had been inspired when he’d suggested that she move in. 1967 was turning out to be a very good year indeed.

 

 * * * * *

 

“I hope Mal makes it back before the storm.” Marisol stood in the doorway, watching the tail lights disappear into the fog. Snow was expected again tonight, and lots of it. After everything John had to drink tonight, Mal was drafted to drive him home in the Rolls.

“He’ll be fine,” Paul said, tugging her inside the house.

They spent ten minutes getting the dogs settled down again for the night and checking the locks. Marisol was tiptoeing toward the stairs, her high heels swinging from her fingers, when Paul came around the other way. He stood smiling at her, holding out his hands.

“Fancy cutting a rug around the new jukebox?”

It was almost one thirty in the morning and she’d been on her feet most of the day, thanks to her shopping expedition into Kings Road. But her handsome husband wanted a dance, and she could think of nothing she’d rather do. She let her shoes slip from her fingers.

 

“At last…my love has come along…my lonely days are over…and life is like a song…”

They swirled around the floor in their bare feet, the juke box speaker set to low and Paul’s voice resonating in his chest under her ear.

“When this song played at Eppy’s I couldn’t wait to get you home and out of this pretty red dress.”

“Oh, so you like the dress now?”

“I’m a man, aren’t I?”

Marisol pressed herself fully against him. “All signs point to yes.”

He laughed and dipped her, nearly dropped her, and caught her again at the last minute and jerked her upright.

She gasped. “You did that on purpose.”

“Gotta keep ‘em guessing.”

“…and here we are in heaven…” sang Etta James.

Marisol giggled, still a little buzzed from glass upon glass of Brian’s best Chardonnay. “Kiss me, you fool,” she whispered, puckering her lips.

Their faces were lit only by the juke box glow. Their lips met, and it was like every romantic movie kiss Marisol had ever envisioned.

“…in heaven…in heaven…in heaven…in heaven…”

Without breaking the kiss, Paul danced them slowly over to the juke box and gave it a sharp backwards kick with the bottom of his foot.

“…for you are mine…at last…”

They giggled into each other’s mouths, their teeth clicking, both of them thinking the same thing. All of this modern technology and none of it worked right half the time.

Another record dropped down. Their eyes met in the softly lit room. A look so intense she felt like she was seeing her heart’s other half. Paul’s fingers slid under the hem of her new velvet dress, inching upwards. He brought his lips to hers. Outside, a silent snow began to fall.

 

[](https://imgur.com/sbz5OUd)


	40. Chapter 40

 

 

On the 10th of February, Paul got out of bed, stretched, and shoved aside the heavy purple drapes.

“It’s getting better,” he said, squinting into the soft morning sunlight.

“Turn it off,” Marisol said, squeezing her eyes closed.

“Getting better all the time,” Paul added, and he laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Remember when we went to Australia with Jimmy Nicol that time Ringo was feeling poorly? Every time we asked Jimmy how it was going, he’d say ‘It’s getting better.’ That’s all he ever said.”

Marisol mumbled a response and turned away from the onslaught of sun.

She’d been up until 3 am the night before typing on her new word processor. Lost in the plotting, her fingers flying over the keys, pausing only to thumb through Roget’s Thesaurus for a better word. Although her Papa always said not to use Roget. “The word you find in a thesaurus is never the right one,” he’d say.

But then, Papa also said not to think about your writing once you’d stopped for the day. That way your subconscious would be working on it while you were busy listening to other people and noticing everything. Marisol found she did the opposite—plotting the next scene and running dialogue in her head until Paul whistled or Angela snapped her fingers in front of her nose.

“She’s away with the fairies again,” Angela would say.

“She’s dreaming about my dick again,” Paul would say, and Angela would make a retching sound.

Both of them were wrong, most of the time. She was typically on the imaginary planet Anglia, picturing a young girl with tawny skin and black hair escaping the wreckage of her spacecraft and the purple-haired, light-eyed girl watching in disbelief from the edge of a forest. That would be the first scene she would ask Kim Moon to draw. The moment when Luna sees Romina fall from the sky. Quite a shock for a girl who comes from a planet of people who have not yet discovered flight.

Marisol cracked open one eye, adjusting to the brightness. Paul hadn’t closed the drapes, and he was making the usual pot of noise, whistling and humming and tapping out percussion on anything that got in his way as he went about his morning bathroom routine. She yawned and pushed back the covers and stretched her arms over her head, her mind already running ahead to the page where she’d stopped typing last night.

Just then Paul came out of the en suite bathroom, dropping a T-shirt and pajama bottoms in the doorway. When he saw she was awake, he dazzled her with a smile. “Morning my beautiful bride. You look lonely in that there big bed.”

Marisol’s lips curved as she took in the pleasing sight of her naked and semi-aroused husband. He still had it. The tingle factor. But first she needed to tap into that beautiful, creative brain of his.

“I was just thinking. The king would put Romina in prison while his scientists try to reverse engineer her space craft. He’s a benevolent king, but he’d have to protect his people.”

Paul sat on the edge of the bed and immediately lay back with his head in her lap, staring up at her. “He wouldn’t be scared of a girl. But he’d want to be sure there weren’t more of her people coming, planning to attack them from the air.”

“Right. The king wouldn’t hurt her dog though, would he? Even though they haven’t seen dogs before and the dog might act threatening if he’s separated from his mistress…”

“Nah. Because the king’s daughter…um…” His right hand slid under her nightgown and slowly up her ribs.

“Luna.” She gasped as his hand found her breast. Her nipple, specifically. “Her name is Luna.”

“Right. Luna would make sure the dog isn’t hurt because they’re becoming friends. And nobody means more to the king than his daughter.”

Marisol hummed a response. Her fingers were busy running through his soft dark hair. Hands down, her husband had the softest hair she’d ever felt on a man.

“Have you decided on a title?”

“Lost in Anglia?” Marisol suggested, her voice coming out a little breathless as Paul massaged her breast.

“I’d like to be lost in Marisol,” Paul said. He rolled over and lifted her nightgown, pushing her onto her back, kissing his way up her belly while she squirmed underneath him.

This was the way their mornings began. They’d wake up and talk briefly…very briefly…about whatever song Paul was working on or whatever sticky plot issue Marisol had run into, then they’d make love and start the day feeling like they could easily compose a symphony and write the world’s greatest novel by tea time. Not a bad way to start the day at all.

 

 “Don’t forget it’s Take Your Lover to Work Day at the studio. Should be interesting. We’re recording with a full set of penguins.”

They were sharing a pillow, smiling into each other’s eyes as they tried to catch their breath.

“Mmm. That’s nice.” She stroked his chest. He played with her hair. Then she focused on his words. “Did you say penguins?”

“An orchestra,” Paul clarified. “And they’ll all be wearing evening clothes. Even the studio engineers. It’s an event, you see. And we’re getting together a choir of our mates to hum the final chord. Do you want to invite your friend Kim and that nutter she’s married to?”

“Maybe. I’ll give her a call. I think he’s on tour.”

Somewhere downstairs a dog barked and Melody squealed.

Marisol sighed and sat up. It was time to take over childcare duties so Angela could be off to University. “Oh. Paul. Did you talk to George Martin about Angela?”

“I did. He thinks it’s an interesting idea.” Paul snatched a green flowered shirt off the floor and slid his arms into the sleeves.

“She’ll be so good at this.”

“We’ll see.”

For the past couple of years, Angela had earned money and rent by reading textbooks to her landlady’s blind son who was also attending University. Her landlady had given Marisol the idea really. When Angela moved out of her flat to live with them at Cavendish, the older woman had been distraught. “Why aren’t there more available audio books for non-sighted people?” she’d fretted.

Why indeed? Angela, when she used her posh accent, had a clear, captivating speaking voice. She would be a natural at recording for the blind. She loved to read and enjoyed putting her acting skills to use. And she was graduating in May and had no clear plans, beyond helping with Melody. So Marisol had asked Paul to make some enquiries at EMI on Angela’s behalf.

Paul tossed her a wink. “Mr. Martin is making a few calls, checking the market for spoken word recordings.”

“Thank you my gorgeous husband.”

“Anything for you, Goldie.”

Goldie. Marisol smiled to herself at Paul’s new nickname for her, shortened from “Marigold” which he’d somehow derived from Marisol Rose.

Meanwhile, the saddest puppy in the world had now taken up residence outside their bedroom door, whimpering and emitting an occasional pitiful howl. As soon as Paul opened the door, Martha bounded in and greeted him as though he had just this moment returned from a three year tour of duty in Southeast Asia. Happy tail and butt wagging and whirling like a cyclone. With all the people living in the house and running in and out, Martha was most ardently attached to Paul.

“Martha my dear!” Paul ruffled the pup’s floppy ears and began to sing. “I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you, for all my life! When you’re near me baby the skies’ll be blue, for all my life!” He sang and danced like an arthritic clown while he stepped into yesterday’s jeans, and Martha joined in, yipping and yapping in joyous harmonization.

“Why is she so happy in the morning?” Marisol asked over the cacophony.

“Because she’s a predator. It’s a whole new day for hunting and eating! And because we’re simpatico—happy to be alive on this rare, blue planet…Who’s a good girl?”

“You are wondrous, holy fools together,” Marisol said, laughing at their antics as she closed the en suite door.

 

The Friday evening recording session, with its forty-two member symphony orchestra, was booked in EMI’s cavernous Studio One. It started typically, with George Martin sitting on his high stool between John and Paul, tasked with turning their artistic visions into reality.

John said: “What I’d like to hear is a tremendous build-up, from nothing up to something that sounds absolutely like the end of the world.”

“Something tumultuous,” added Paul. “Something that will whack the listeners between the ears and leave them gasping with shock.”

“A musical orgasm,” explained John.

The look on Mr. Martin’s face was somewhere between amused and frustrated. “Come on, John. You can’t just give a symphony orchestra instructions like that. You’ve got to write something down for them.”

“Why?” asked John, in his wide-eyed approach to such matters.

“Because it won’t work.”

“Mal should be back in a tick with the party novelties. That should loosen ‘em up,” John said.

Ignoring that logic, Mr. Martin plucked a sheet of lined paper from a nearby music stand. “Here’s what I’ve done. I’ve written the lowest possible note for each of the instruments here, and at the end of 24 bars the highest possible note, and a squiggly line right through the 24 bars, with reference points to tell them roughly which note they should have reached during each bar. Pianissimo to fortissimo.”

“Enough chit chat,” said John. “Let’s do it.”

It was at that moment Paul asked Marisol to find Neil Aspinall and tell him to bring their cases over from Studio Two. It took Marisol a good fifteen minutes to locate Neil, coming in the back with a cardboard box full of alcohol. He then asked for her help locating glass tumblers from the canteen. When she finally returned to Studio One, she could hardly believe her eyes.

The orchestra had arrived, dressed in evening clothes as requested. On top of their evening clothes, every member of the orchestra had on a silly hat. The orchestra leader, who Paul had mentioned used to be the leader of the Royal Philharmonic, was wearing a bright red false nose and paper glasses. Beside him an esteemed violinist from the BBC Symphony Orchestra was playing happily away, his bow held in a giant gorilla’s paw. A red balloon on the end of a bassoon went up and down as the bassoonist tuned.

The Beatles wives were in attendance, along with forty or so of their way-out friends and rock elite: Mick Jagger, Marianne Faithfull, Brian Jones, Keith Richards, Graham Nash, Donovan, Mike Nesmith, the psychedelic artistic team of Simon and Marijke, and Liverpool mates Ivan Vaughan and Pete Shotton, to name only a few. Dressed in multicolored long flowing robes, striped flared pants, brilliant waistcoats, love-beads, badges and bells, they wandered in and around the orchestra, blowing rainbow bubbles out of clay pipes, while Mal Evans passed out 16 mm movie cameras and sparklers and party novelties and joints and God knows what.

Marisol stared at it all in amazement and started laughing.

“Come on, love, join in, wot?” Ringo said, handing her a tambourine.

Through all the hubbub, a mellowed out John Lennon wandered around in a daze, wearing a badge that said “Down With Knickers.” Marisol noticed he was wearing two different colored shoes, one red and one green.

It was a happening! But as soon as the recording got underway, the Beatles wives and flower children friends were told to sit against the wall and behave themselves, and they did.

George Martin gave instructions to the orchestra: Lip the notes. Smooth transitions. Slide as gracefully as possible between one note and the next, Instead of producing crisp notes, slide your fingers up and down the frets, all the while building in intensity.

Most important: They were to disobey the most fundamental rule of the orchestra. They were not to play as one. They were not to even listen to their neighbors.

There was some grumbling from the musicians. “What the bloody hell? Do what?”

“Just trust me. Please. Just trust me,” George Martin implored, as balloons popped in the background.

After more laughing and shaking of heads, Paul took a turn telling the orchestra what to do.

“It’s every man for himself,” he said. “Just do your own slide up, your own way. If you do listen to the guy next to you, and you find you’re playing the same note, you’re playing the wrong note.”

For reasons known only to himself, Paul had donned a full-length red cook’s apron, which clashed horribly with his purple and black paisley shirt and wide 1930’s striped tie. And because there were movie cameras on, he assumed the role of conductor with obvious relish, head thrown back and eyes closed in mock ecstasy as he led the orchestra through the 24 bars again and again.

When George Martin put down his baton and said, “Thank you, gentlemen, that’s a wrap,” everyone in the entire studio—musicians and spectators alike—broke into spontaneous applause.

The session lasted four hours. After the session musicians had gone home, the Beatles and George Martin considered how to end the song. The orchestral climax sounded too abrupt, and Paul had another idea brewing in his head. He asked the guests to stick around. Everyone was growing weary—there were lots of empty wine bottles and the studio smelled suspiciously of pot—but they were keen to have a go.

So the group and studio guests gathered around a microphone. Paul’s concept was to have everyone hum the same note in unison. How absurd, Marisol thought, to be part of the the biggest gathering of pop stars in the world, humming into a microphone. “Eight beats, remember,” said Paul, leading them into the first take. The first few attempts dissolved into laughter, but the final one was a wrap.

Understandably, everyone present was curious as to how the recording turned out. They crowded into the tiny control room to hear the playback, guests spilling out into the corridor, listening through the open door. Everyone, without exception, was utterly blown away by the dramatic sonic experience. The Hollies producer Ron Richards kept shaking his head and saying to anyone who would listen, “That’s it. I’ll give up and retire now.”

Marisol left the studio speechless and starstruck, feeling privileged to have been in the presence of such a breathtaking musical event.

“Marisol dear, say goodnight to the Starrs, the Harrisons and Mr. Lennon,” Paul said, as they stepped out into a cold, starry night. Then the wives huddled together on the stairs while a straggly group of pink-cheeked, red-nosed fans raced up to fawn over their husbands.

“How was the session?”

“Great!” Paul said and gave a thumbs up sign.

“Can I touch your hair?” A girl asked George.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” George snapped.

Someone asked John: “Where’s Cyn?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, sounding annoyed. “Stop flashing that bloody camera in me eyes.”

“George! George!”

“What? I’m right here.”

“Did you get anything unusual in the mail for Valentine’s Day?”

“Like what? I do get some unusual things.”

“Um…” the girl lowered her voice. “Like knickers…with hearts on them…”

“Yes, I remember getting something like that,” George said, not looking up from the book he was signing.

“In other words, he isn’t wearing them now, if that’s what you’re asking,” Paul said, and George laughed.

They all climbed into their cars, except for Paul and Marisol. Paul was still amped from the night’s events and wanted to walk the short distance home. They linked arms and set off at a brisk pace, talking about the session and how well it had turned out. Marisol told him how she’d been at Mick Jagger’s elbow during the playback and heard him repeatedly sigh and say “Fuck me, mate. Fuck me.”

At nearly 2 am, only a few excited figures still waited at the end of the drive in front of Cavendish.

One was an American girl who emulated everything Marisol did. She styled her dyed blonde hair the same way and paid close attention to everything Marisol wore. If Marisol wore jeans and a pink sweater one day, this girl would be wearing jeans and a similar pink sweater the next day.

“Paul! Paul, can you sign this?” she cried, trembling with excitement.

“I’ve been signing for you for months now,” Paul pointed out.

“It’s for her,” the girl said, pointing to a stringy haired brunette. “She’s too afraid to ask.”

Paul handed the autograph to the brunette girl. “Don’t be afraid love. But if you want to talk to us, you should wait where we work.”

He smiled at the girl and she clutched the autograph to her chest and shivered and shook, unable to speak.

The American girl was staring intently at Paul from only a few feet away. “Your lip really does have a bash in it,” she whispered.

“What’s your name?” Paul asked her.

“Marilyn,” said the girl, eagerly basking in Paul’s attention.

“Marilyn. Are you the one who keeps shining a torch up at our bedroom window all hours of the night?”

Marilyn blinked away, the picture of guilt. “I wouldn’t do that,” she said, She took a step back and wrapped a protective arm around her patchwork fabric handbag.

Marisol couldn’t help noticing a suspicious flashlight shaped lump in the handbag. The brightly colored beaded bag, in fact, looked identical to the one Marisol’s sister had given her for Christmas. “Nice handbag,” she said to the girl.

Marilyn turned her attention to Marisol, scrutinizing her in that eager, invasive way of hers. “It’s from California.”

“Nice.”

“It’s time to go home, girls. Goodnight.” Paul pointed down the street with a severe expression on his face. Marisol stood slightly behind him, waiting beside the gate until the girls collected their rucksacks and the remains of their dinners and wandered away into the night.

 

Once inside the house, Marisol slipped off her heels and tiptoed up the stairs, mindful of Rosie and Angela and Melody sound asleep in their beds. While Paul let the dogs out back for a wee, she checked on the baby and made her way to the top floor.

With a clean sheet of paper inserted and curled around the platen, she typed “Chapter 19” and returned the carriage.

_The days seemed longer on Anglia, the nights colder._

“What are you doing, babe?” Paul stood in the doorway watching her.

The typing stopped. “I don’t know…All that powerful music tonight…all that creativity…it gave me the urge to write something myself.”

He came into the room and stood behind her, strong hands massaging her shoulders. With her fingers poised over the keyboard, she waited for Paul to tell her to stop typing and come to bed. Instead, he gave her shoulders a squeeze and left the room.

Marisol began to type again.

Seconds later Paul was back, carrying his new Martin acoustic guitar. He sat in the only other chair in the room and softly strummed— a nice, warm sound, the perfect accompaniment to her whirring brain.

Marisol’s fingers flew over the keys, inspiration flowing, the way it sometimes does when you’ve been privileged to be part of a powerful musical experience. Now and then she’d look up to see her handsome, sleepy husband hunched over his guitar, humming along to the magical tunes in his head, keeping her company on a cold February night.

Just another day in the life.

 

 

 

 

 


	41. Chapter 41

It was Marisol’s first English Spring, and the beauty of London charmed her. From the abundance of parks and green spaces to the cute little pastel cottages around Notting Hill, the city was awash with cherry blossom. When the days turned warmer and the trees burst into blooms, the parks and gardens turned vibrant green and the sun shone, London was irresistible.

Paul had spent the winter hard at work in the studio, often staying later than the others to lay down the bass. At home in St. John’s Wood, Marisol had worked nearly as hard on her book.

Many cold afternoons were spent in the little office at the top of the house, with Kim Moon sitting at a table next to her, bringing Marisol’s characters to life with her sketches while their baby daughters played happily side by side with dolls and stuffed animals and dogs and kittens. Especially kittens.

In late March, Paul had come home in the wee hours with Michael Nesmith in tow and awakened Marisol with the happy news that Thisbe was in labor. The three of them had spent the rest of the night drinking tea and watching the blessed event, while the two men puffed endlessly on what Paul referred to as jazz woodbines.

“Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses,” Paul kept saying. “Isn’t this marvelous?”

“What are we going to do with all these cats?” Marisol kept saying.

Michael Nesmith reminded them that Paul need only step outside the gate with an armful of kittens and teenage wanna-be pet owners from all over England would fight to be the ones to own a McCartney kitten.

So that was the plan, when the kittens were big enough to leave their mother they’d be adopted out to the most responsible of the fans. Meanwhile, Mandy and Melody and their mums spent many happy afternoons watching the little fur babies grow.

Marisol and Kim worked together on the book as much as possible, whenever Keith was away or when she managed to get away from him. Kim always seemed pleased to be away from him, and a little adrift. She seemed happier when she was lost in her own world with a blank page and a table littered with art supplies. When Keith was on tour they’d sometimes meet at the Moon family’s new place in the country.

Keith and Kim hadn’t had much luck in London with neighbors and landlords. Keith played his music too loud, had parties at all hours and generally wrecked the place. At last they moved into a big house in the country, where Keith could be as much of a nutter as he liked without the neighbors complaining.

 

On an afternoon in mid-May, Marisol showed up early in the afternoon at Kim’s to find party guests scattered around from the night before. Everyone was waking up and making tracks to the local for a pie and a pint. The Golden Grove was conveniently located 100 yards away at the end of the drive. Kim and Marisol rode bicycles, while Keith transported the rest of the group in a milk float with a sofa inside. It looked like a living room on wheels.

Keith and Kim were treated like family at their local pub, even going behind the bar to help themselves on occasion. The weather was unusually warm and everyone was happy. Kim was the perfect hostess, making sure no one’s glass stayed empty for long. Other than throwing peanuts everywhere, Keith behaved reasonably well. He was everyone’s friend—generous and jovial and up for anything. It seemed only Kim had to deal with his darker side.

Keith soon left for a session, taking most of the guests back to London with him, and eventually only Marisol and Kim and a shortish dark-haired friend of Keith’s remained at the pub. The friend’s name was Mac, and he was introduced as the keyboardist for the Faces. All of Keith’s and Kim’s friends seemed to be in the music business, but it was the same for Marisol. Sometimes it seemed she hardly knew anyone who wasn’t famous.

Mac was a great conversationalist, and they talked about music and being on the road and the differences between America and England and friends they had in common.

The afternoon flew by.

 

After they left the pub, Kim sat astride her bike attempting to open the wrought iron gates in front of her house while Marisol opened the boot of the Mini to retrieve the latest chapter of her book. Suddenly there was a clattering and a squeal that made Marisol straighten and whip around. The bike was tipped over on the ground and Kim and Mac were sprawled in the grass laughing.

“What just happened?” Marisol asked after Mac waved and drove away.

“He kissed me! I was so gobsmacked it knocked me off my bike.”

Marisol laughed. “Well. Isn’t that a thing! He seems really sweet. Do you like him?”

“Of course I like him. But...well...I didn’t know it was like that. I didn’t know he liked me that way...” she trailed off wistfully, staring into the middle distance.

Kim looked so sweet that day in jeans and a fluffy white Angora top. From the moment Keith left she’d flushed prettily and basked in Mac’s attention, hanging on his every word. But there hadn’t been any overt flirting going on. Kim was stunning of course, with her flaxen hair and big blue eyes and flawless porcelain skin. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine Mac had been building up the courage to kiss her since the second he saw her.

“Who wouldn’t like you that way? You’re beautiful and sweet and kind and smart and a wonderful listener.”

Kim sighed. “Keith said if Mac ever tried to pull me he’d pay some thug to break all his fingers so he couldn’t play piano ever again.”

“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

Kim slid her eyes away and mumbled something Marisol didn’t quite catch.

They parked their bikes inside the gate and Marisol linked her arm with Kim’s as they walked to the house. They had grown close enough over the last few months that Marisol knew her friend would open up if she wanted to. There was no need to press her.

 

The Moons’ new house was an unusual modern concoction surrounded by trees and grassy slopes. There were floor to ceiling sliding glass walls and a sunken sitting room with a fireplace in the middle. The bar’s walls were covered with huge paintings of Spider-Man and The Hulk and Thor and featured a large juke box filled with singles by The Beach Boys and Jan and Dean.

In some ways it looked more like an airport lounge than a family home.

Over a pot of tea they sat in a sun-filled room at the back of the house and went over some illustrations. The book was nearly finished. Consequently, they began to muse about what they would do with any profits they would earn if the book sold.

“We aren’t really doing it for the money,” Kim said.

“We need the creative outlet,” Marisol said.

“And to get out of the house,” Kim added.

“I’d give it all to an animal charity,” Marisol decided. “If we get published.”

“What do you mean _if_? Of course we’ll be published, are you kidding? The press will be all over it, two pop stars’ wives collaborating on a book project, and you a Hemingway?”

“Hmm. What do you think our husbands will think about all that?”

“I can tell you right now, if it gets me noticed, Keith will be livid.” Kim twirled a lock of hair around her finger in a nervous gesture. “That’s the problem, really. I’m his possession.”

Marisol made a tutting sound. “Men can be that way, believe me, I know. But you’re strong. You don’t have to put up with it. And the violence…you definitely should not put up with that.”

Kim sighed and looked away. She leaned forward and straightened an already perfectly straight stack of illustrations. Then she looked at Marisol. “What’s your biggest fear in life?” she suddenly asked. “Everyone has one. What’s yours?”

“I guess my biggest fear would be losing the people I love. And thirteen year old girls. But I’m coping, day by day.”

Kim laughed. “Thirteen year old girls are bloody terrifying.”

“What’s your biggest fear?” Marisol said, wondering why Kim was asking such a thing.

“So many things. Mostly I’m afraid of losing myself.”

“That’s a real problem when you’re married to one of the biggest rock stars in the world.” Marisol tilted her head, waiting, trying to be pliantly receptive without being pushy.

“Things aren’t getting better,” Kim said quietly. “Keith isn’t going to change. The other night I hid in the bathroom while he attempted to cut it down with a knife.”

“Holy hell,” Marisol whispered. “Listen, Kim. If you need a place to stay…”

Kim lifted her hair on top of her head, then let the silken strands slip through her fingers and fall around her shoulders. She took a deep breath and let it out, seeming to make up her mind about something.

“I’m leaving him. I’ve already decided.”

Marisol nodded. She put down her tea cup. Her fingers went to her mouth, tugging at her bottom lip as she waited for her friend to continue.

“Not because of Mac, or anything like that. I’m waiting for the right moment, you know? Not the right man. I need my independence.”

“I can understand that. You’ve been with him since you were 16.”

“It’s just…” Kim sagged against the back of the sofa and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

“You know, when Keith was last in America, he was on a plane that nearly crashed. He called me after and said when it was happening he thought to himself, ‘I can’t leave Kim. I can’t even be a minute later getting home to her. We can’t die here in the hills of Tennessee.’ At that moment the plane righted itself and they went limping back to an airport and had an emergency landing. You know what Keith said to me? ‘Our love saved everyone on board.’ That’s what he said to me.”

Kim’s eyes filled with tears. “No one will ever love me like that again.” Her face crumpled and she dropped her head onto her folded arms.

“Oh sweetheart.” Marisol scooted across the sofa and put her arms around her friend, hugging her tight while she composed herself. Her own eyes filled with hot tears at the sound of Kim’s ragged breathing as she tried not to cry. “That’s not necessarily a healthy love. It sounds like he’s obsessed with you.”

Kim took a shaky breath without answering.

“But don’t for one minute think you won’t fall in love again. I did, and so will you.”

Kim wordlessly rocked in place, and Marisol rubbed small circles on her back. “How can I help, Kim? Do you need a place to stay? You and Mandy are always welcome to stay with us. Big Mal would keep you safe.”

Kim straightened and shook her head adamantly. “We have to go where Keith won’t find us. He’ll never let me go,” she said, her voice breaking at the end.

“Jesus,” Marisol whispered.

Kim rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes. She took a couple of deep breaths before she continued. “My father has some old family friends who Keith knows nothing about. They live way out in Three Cocks, Wales. We’re going to hide out there until Keith realizes he has to let me go.”

“Okay. Well. Thank god for Three Cocks then.”

Their eyes met, and in spite of the seriousness of the conversation, they both smiled a little at the absurdity.

Kim let her head fall on Marisol’s shoulder. “I have a little kid to think about you know?”

“Yes, you do, and you’re a wonderful mother.”

Kim sniffed. “Mandy and I are lucky though, that we have options.”

“You definitely do.”

“Mum was reading about a shelter for battered women that just opened in America. We don’t have anything like that here.” Kim sat back, fixing Marisol with a determined look. “If our…I mean _when_ our book sells? That’s what I’ll do with the money.”

Just like that, the decision was made. “You know what? Me too. I don’t know if the book will sell or not, but I’m in favor of donating everything to a battered women’s charity. And if there isn’t one, we’ll start one.” Marisol picked up Kim’s hand and squeezed it.

“You’re going to be okay. All your friends will make sure of it,” she said, smiling at this beautiful, fragile looking but incredibly strong woman, that she was so proud to call her friend.

Just as Marisol had doubts about the future of her book project, her husband was holding his breath waiting to see what the reaction to Sgt. Pepper would be.

The album was set to be released the first of June. It was a vast departure from anything that had been done before. Would it sell? Had they been too pretentious? Too clever? Would the critics savage it?

During the last week of May, John and Paul were both on the telephone to Tony Barrow, the Beatles press officer, with nonstop questions: Were advance copies of Pepper sent to the radio stations in time? Was there going to be enough publicity? What if they donned their Pepper uniforms and marched to Buckingham Palace with a brass band playing behind them? Should they pull a stunt like that? Should they go for a massive, singing and dancing press launch extravaganza for the album’s release?

Brian, in his wisdom as it turned out, opted for a “listen-in” at his four-story Georgian house, just a stone’s throw from Buckingham Palace. It was the hottest ticket in town, with only a small number of important reporters, disc jockeys and friends invited to attend.

 

While Paul arranged himself majestically beside the fireplace, dispensing wisdom about everything from art to artificial intelligence, Marisol stood in the dining room nursing a glass of champers and talking airplanes with the Duke of Edinburgh, as the Beatles referred to George Martin.

Trained as a Naval Airman in the Fleet Air Arm of the Royal Navy, Mr. Martin entertained her with harrowing tales of flying a Vickers Supermarine Walrus, an amphibian biplane that “shook like the dickens,” and later the technologically advanced Barracuda Torpedo Dive Bomber.

“In flight training, there was no radar,” Mr. Martin recalled. “And when you took off from an aircraft carrier, you were on your own. Two and a half hours later you had to find the ship again in the middle of a heaving ocean, relying on your own navigational sense and on the winds. You found your own winds, worked out what they were doing to the aircraft, and then navigated by dead reckoning.”

Marisol could have listened to his exhilarating war stories all day, but Pattie brought their conversation to a close when she appeared at the doorway, her eyes round as saucers.

“Pardon me, Mr. Martin, but…could I borrow you for a moment, Marisol?”

Marisol stared at her, puzzled.

“Of course,” said Mr. Martin.

Pattie linked their arms and escorted Marisol to the living room. There Marisol saw Paul, seated by the fireplace in a Louis Cinque rococo chair with silk Regency stripes. At his feet knelt a willowy blonde, dressed to kill in a tight skirt and barber pole-striped pink and white jacket arranged just so over a sheer black sweater.

“She’s been on her knees in front of him for fifteen minutes after the photo shoot ended,” Pattie hissed. “Really zeroed in on him. Everyone’s noticed. A tenner says she doesn’t even have film in the camera. You need to get your little arse in there, love.”

When she reached her husband’s side, Marisol cast a bemused glance at the woman on her knees in front of him.

“Ah. Here she is now,” Paul said, giving Marisol a sweet and slightly stoned smile.

The tall blonde gracefully rose to her feet and offered her hand. “Linda Eastman.”

“Marisol _McCartney_ ,” Marisol said, emphasizing her last name as she briefly shook the photographer’s hand.

Linda laughed. “I _know_.”

“Did you get what you came for?” Marisol said, nodding at the camera, her voice friendly.

“Oh, he’s a great subject,” Linda said in her New England prep school drawl. “The camera loves him. I could work with him all day.”

They both looked at Paul, who was slouching with one ankle resting on the other knee, fiddling with a box of matches and looking pleased with himself.

Dressed in a striped double-breasted jacket and loosely tied colorful scarf over a purple casual shirt, along with his newly clean-shaven face, he looked like a character from a Scott Fitzgerald novel.

“Linda’s from New York,” he said. “We were just discovering we have mutual friends.”

“How interesting,” Marisol said. Her voice came out sounding more frosty than she’d intended.

At the tone of her voice, her husband raised an eyebrow. He looked from Marisol to Linda. Then he stood up and gave the pretty photographer a little salute. “Nice chatting with you, Linda.”

Linda tucked a loop of hair behind one ear and batted her false eyelashes at Paul as she thanked him for his time. Paul didn’t seem to notice, because he was smiling at his wife.

As the slim blonde and the rest of the horde of photographers were ushered down the stairs, Paul tugged Marisol toward the lounge where Sgt Pepper played at full volume.

“Why do you suppose Pattie Harrison felt I needed to rescue you from that woman?”

“Bugger if I know,” Paul said, the picture of innocence. “She’s dating Eric. The Animal.” He arched a brow. “At least that’s what she says.”

“You two sure looked cozy. Was she coming on to you?”

Paul seemed to take the question seriously. “You know, I never know any more. I don’t think it was a come on. I think she genuinely likes the music.” In the doorway he leaned against her, his eyes dancing. “Are you jealous of the lady photographer?” he teased.

“Should I be?”

“I can’t think why. You’re the only pretty blonde American for me.” He squeezed her fingers and smiled adorably and tossed in a flirty wink for good measure.

Just inside the lounge, Brian was standing beside a shelf upon which rested an antique clock - a Christmas present from Paul and Marisol. He was telling a group of disc jockeys about the LP cover, which clearly delighted him.

In the center of the room was a table laden with food. White-jacketed waiters served huge dishes of cold meats and vegetables, fruit, salads and gazpacho. Champagne flowed freely, distributed by Brian’s right-hand man, Peter Brown. Tony Barrow passed out cigarettes, and Joanne Newfield fluttered around making everyone comfortable.

Paul placed a fresh glass of champagne in her hands and took one for himself. Marisol couldn’t stay annoyed with him. It wasn’t his fault women flocked to him. It wasn’t that photographer’s fault either. He was irresistible. All the Beatles were.

Paul cast a longing eye in the direction of the feast, but he was quickly cornered by two eager writers. He headed to the far end of the lounge instead, where the other Beatles were already surrounded by scribes.

There they stood, the princelings of rock, reeking of hipness and exquisite tailoring and cannabis glazed eyes. They all looked especially flashy today, but John was the most stylish, and quirky, in a green flowered shirt, red corduroy trousers, yellow socks and corduroy shoes. His outfit was topped with a bright yellow afghan fur lined coat and a Scottish medieval pouch worn on a belt. With his bushy sideboards and mustache and National Health spectacles, he reminded Marisol of a Victorian watchmaker.

“How about the title of the LP, gentlemen,” a reporter asked. “Are you pretending to be a different band?”

George, looking dashing in dark trousers and a maroon velvet jacket, was the first to speak up. “All the world’s a stage anyway, innit? We’ve been just pretending to be Beatles for five years now. Like Harold Wilson’s pretending to be prime minister.”

“What’s the significance of the badge?” Someone asked, referring to the badge on George’s lapel: the emblem of a yellow submarine with daffodils sprouting from it.

“It’s from the New York Workshop of Non-violence.”

“Are you opposed to war?”

“Naturally,” George said seriously. “The idea of man killing man is terrible.”

The reporters scribbled furiously.

Marisol had noticed George was particularly thoughtful lately. Smitten with Eastern philosophy and music, he’d spent six weeks in India learning the sitar, and his heart was still there. He practiced the sitar for hours a day, losing interest in the guitar, which he had once played until his fingers bled. So now the Beatles had a guitarist who no longer wanted to play, and who was no longer interested in pop music. He was bored with what he called the “fantasy songs” and “fictional characters” which made up a lot of the Pepper album. Marisol had heard him indicate more than once over the past few months he was utterly unimpressed with Paul’s entire concept of the Pepper project. “We adopt the personae of another band, and then what? Nobody seems to know where it goes from there,” he’d say.

In fact, when the Beatles dressed in their vibrant Sgt Pepper costumes for the photo shoots and accompanying videos, George often wore the same beleaguered expression as a dog forced to wear a dress.

Even now, when the questions became more specific about Sgt Pepper, George retired to a settee, where he sat quietly nibbling a piece of celery.

“What about rumors of the Beatles splitting up?”

“Rubbish,” John said.

“You, know,” Paul said, “we’ve really been looking forward to this evening. We wanted to meet a few people because so many distorted stories were being printed. We have never thought about splitting up. We want to go on recording together.”

Ringo, who was inexplicably wearing a conservative dark suit and tie, spoke up. “The rumors of the Beatles demise have been greatly exacerbated,” he said, lifting his glass into the air.

“The Beatles live!” Paul said, raising his own glass.

A NME journalist zeroed in on Paul and John, asking what they were expecting from the album.

Paul grinned at his bandmate. “What do you suppose the critics will say when they hear this one, John?”

“I don’t give a bugger about the critics,” said John. “I’ll blow them a bloody kiss wearing nothing but my bank statement.”

“We think It will go down quite well,” Paul translated.

“We’ve worked very hard on it,” John added, turning serious. “If we didn’t think it was ready, we wouldn’t be here today.”

The journalist wrote that down, then mentioned he would write a glowing review, at which point John and Paul both sent him up.

“Will you make me popular?” said Paul. “That’s great, thanks mate.”

“Thank you very much,” added John. “No matter what happens I know that, as a journalist, you'll uphold the very finest traditions of journalism.”

Paul threw back his head and laughed with John, the two of them acting like they hadn’t a care in the world, but Marisol knew differently. She’d seen John sitting on her green velvet sofa every day this week practically biting his nails in anticipation. And, in a sure sign of nerves, Paul had begun bursting into “Que Sera Sera” at the oddest moments—the song his mother had sung to him whenever he was worried as a child.

During the last few weeks of May, Paul flashed a prerelease of the record all over London, driving to friends’ houses and playing it at top volume. At Donovan’s flat last week they were blasting Sgt Pepper in the little Japanese room with the windows open when they heard a banging on the door.

While Donovan scurried to turn down the volume and extinguish a joint, Paul answered the door to find two of London’s finest on the threshold. “Oh, it’s you Mr. McCartney. Is it your car, Sir? A sports car?”

Apparently after Paul had let Marisol out at the front door, he’d been in such a rush to show off the Beatles’ latest masterpiece that he’d left the DB6 blocking the road at an odd angle with the driver’s door open and the radio still on.

“Sorry, sorry,” Paul said, patting his pocket for the keys.

“Do you want me to park it for you, Sir?” the youngest officer asked hopefully.

“That’d be fine.” Paul handed him the keys.

Marisol watched, astonished, as the starstruck officer came back with the keys and saluted Lord Paul, saying “Here you are Sir, good day.”

“Turn the music back up!” A neighbor shouted from a window across the narrow street.

Paul had turned to Marisol with a grin. “That’s rather a good sign.”

It turned out to be a very good sign, and the Beatles had little to worry about.

The critics outdid themselves. One writer declared Sgt Pepper a pivotal moment in the history of Western civilization. Newsweek’s cover story compared the Beatles to T. S. Eliot. Timothy Leary announced that “John Lennon, George Harrison, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are mutants…Evolutionary agents sent down, endowed with mysterious powers to create a new species.”

“Fuckin Ada,” Lennon said to McCartney, “How are we gonna top that?”

Paul just smiled.

Most importantly, the fans loved it. The album sold like hot cakes. Suddenly, Sgt Pepper was everywhere. Everywhere they went, the melodies wafted in on some transistor radio or portable hi-fi or night club turn table or overhead store speaker. And everyone was talking about it.

For perhaps the first time since Marisol had known him, workaholic Paul appeared relaxed and content and happy to enjoy much-needed time off with his family. They talked about trips they planned to take, and at one point Paul even suggested Marisol could fly them herself to the farm in Scotland for a week or two of solitude. They spent the first part of June, as Paul had promised, looking for their dream home in the country, where they could have horses and fewer fans camping outside the gates.

In the midst of all this, John Lennon somehow conceived the notion that the Beatles and their wives and entourage should buy their own Greek island, a sun-kissed hippie idyll beyond the reach of the London Metropolitan drugs squad. A reconnaissance trip was planned for late summer, which Paul good-naturedly went along with, even though he clearly considered the idea whimsical. When Marisol asked him if they were really moving to Greece, Paul laughed and said, “Don’t worry love. They’ll never get it together.”

Meanwhile, every week, the Beatles press agent sent over a large cuttings file marked “Stray Thoughts & Trivia from Fleet Street’s Finest” and Paul left no word unread. “What an evil bunch of tossers,” Paul remarked of journalists in general. Still, that didn’t stop him from continually trying to win their hearts and minds. Even the most jaded interviewers were rarely immune to Paul’s charm. The Times critic, for one, called him “a curious cocktail of earnest, decent, hopeful philosophy, a certain amount of rather spaced-out bunk, and a good deal of old-fashioned drive.”

Marisol knew her husband well enough to realize that his “old-fashioned drive” wouldn’t allow him to rest on his laurels for long. He was already making noise about a new Beatles movie, for Pete’s sake. It was a rare few weeks to have him home and all to herself, and she planned to make the most of it. They were settling in to married life, and getting along “like a house afire,” in the words of Grandma Hadley. As the Spring of 1967 turned into Summer, life in the McCartney household had never been better.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

 

On 25 June, 1967, an estimated 360 million television viewers in 27 countries tuned in to a program called _Our World_. The first ever global satellite hook-up would culminate with a clip of the Beatles sitting on stools and surrounded by beaded and fringed friends singing along with Lennon’s song “All You Need Is Love,” live from the Abbey Road studio.

The Beatles almost didn’t agree to represent the United Kingdom, since they were still smarting from the BBC ban on “A Day In the Life,”on the grounds that it could be considered to have drug taking implications. Surprisingly, so soon a completing six months of work on Sgt Pepper, the Beatles were once again in the studio preparing a new song for the event.

Once they’d gotten involved, it became necessary to stage a spectacular event befitting their spectacular mystique. Heaven forbid the public should envision a Beatles recording session as routine. On the evening of the program, Tony Barrow was dispatched to the London night clubs to bring back any flower waving Beautiful People willing to “drop in” on the scene. The studio was crammed with such famous friends as Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Marianne Faithful, Graham Nash and Eric Clapton. To Marisol’s delight, Keith Moon showed up with Kim, and for once he wasn’t dressed like Queen Victoria or Hitler.

 

Presiding over the happening was George Martin, in a crisp white linen suit. The Beatles seemed to be trying his patience to the utmost. Although Paul and George would be lip syncing the backing vocals, John had insisted on doing his vocals live. Consequently Paul decided his bass must be live. At one point George Harrison expressed his deep desire to play the violin on the backing track, although he didn’t know how. At Mr. Martin’s insistence, he agreed to play lead guitar as usual, but insisted on playing the four measure guitar solo live. Ringo was informed his drums couldn’t be live, as they would drown out the rest of the recording. Ringo shrugged and went back to his chess game with Neil.

 

An ensemble of professional session musicians were hired to perform the introduction to the song and a hodgepodge of opening numbers.

As the backing track played, George Martin was trying to write a score, because somebody wanted it in sheet music, which of course the Beatles never required. They just read each other.

“What is that note, that chord, John, right there. Is it the 7th?”

John said, “Oh no, it’s not that.”

“Well is it the 6th?”

“No.”

“Well it must be somewhere in between then,” George persisted.

John said, “Yeah, man. Write _that_ down.”

 

The audience members, made up of Beatles friends and insiders and a contingent of McCartney relatives, paraded around wearing sandwich boards declaring All You Need Is Love in several languages. For the recording, they would gather at the Beatles’ feet.

Marisol had never seen John Lennon so nervous. She walked by and heard him mumble to himself, “Fuckin’ Ada, I hope I can remember the bloody words.” Because of the camera and microphone placement, his ever present lyric sheet had to be down and off to the side, and if John turned his head to look at it he would be singing away from the mic.

Although Paul claimed he wasn’t nervous, he wore a strange frozen smile that Marisol had never seen before.

At one point, shortly before they were to go live, the BBC van parked outside lost the connection. It went back up in the nick of time and the cameras went live forty seconds earlier than planned, causing everyone a few seconds of panic.

The whole thing seemed so complex that it was bound to go wrong, yet somehow it went without a hitch.

The Beatles looked as cool as only they could under such hot house circumstances.

Their voices synched perfectly and beautifully to the backing track.  
John’s vocal was immaculate as the band played along to a pre-recorded rhythm track, looking happy and confident as they broadcast their message of love to the world.

As exciting as the filming was, the highlight of the week for Marisol was workaholic Paul’s promise to spend the weekend at home with her. Saturday morning they awoke early with plans to take Melody to the zoo. Marisol sat on the bed, waiting for Paul to finish looking at himself in the mirror so she could make some order out of the chaos of her hair. While she waited, she picked up the folder of sketches Kim had given her yesterday.

“Is the sea monster thing too fanciful do you think?”

Paul came out of the bathroom holding his comb. “Yer what?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“What are we talking about now? Real life, or your book?”

Marisol sighed. “It’s important for a novelist to live in two worlds.”

“Right. Right.” Paul dropped his comb on the dresser. “Your book again. Carry on.”

“So the people of Anglia subsist on algae and other sea vegetables they farm from the ocean, and these typically docile sea creatures have turned ferocious and started attacking algae fishermen. The people are going hungry. So Romina, in her tower, hears of this from Luna, and she asks to speak to the king. She tells him how on her home planet there was a similar uprising of selkies who were enraged because their babies were being caught in fishing nets and lobster pots. The fishermen had to change their practices.

The king thinks it over, gathers his advisors, and they come up with ways to harvest the ocean to take only what they need to feed the people and not endanger other sea creatures.”

“Basically Romina saves the planet,” Paul said.

“Naturally. And his daughter has been talking to him on Romina’s behalf, saying it’s wrong to imprison someone because they look differently. Because he can’t deny Luna anything, the king sets Romina free, and she’s able to use her shipboard radio to contact a rescue ship.” Marisol held up the sketch. “Is it too much? The sea monster?”

But Paul was distracted by Martha, who nosed open the the bedroom door, softly panting from the exertion of climbing the stairs in search of her beloved master.

“What about the dog?”

“What about it?”

“Does the dog have puppies?”

“Right, yes, the dog was pregnant when they left Calitopia. She has her puppies and Romina leaves a boy and a girl puppy. So Anglia will be a dog planet now, thanks to your suggestion.”

“Martha?” Paul did a little jig around the room with the sheep dog on his heels. “Who would live on a planet with no dogs, eh?”

Martha did a play bow, her chin on her front paws and her back end wriggling high in the air. Paul dropped to the ground and mimicked her posture, which sent Martha into frenzied barking.

“Paul are you listening? Stop making her wild.”

“She’s making _me_ wild,” Paul protested, but he danced Martha over to the door and ushered her out of the room. She whined politely on the other side of the door.

  
“The sea monster is a major plot point, but is it believable?” Marisol continued.

“I suppose if a fourteen year old girl can fly a spaceship to another planet, then there can also be sea monsters. The reader is always willing to suspend belief for a story, as long as you’re consistent and it’s well written.”

He sat beside her on the bed and rested his chin on her shoulder, finally studying Kim’s sketch. “Lots of big themes in your story,” he mused. “Racism, the environment, social issues—“

“Female empowerment,” Marisol interjected.

“The bonds of friendship, the dangers of interplanetary travel, the healing power of pet ownership—“

“That might be a stretch.”

“Are you ready to show it to someone?”

“Almost.”

Ever the impatient one, Paul had mentioned Marisol’s writing project to a contact at Jonathan Cape, the London publisher who handled John’s book. They showed a surprising amount of interest, considering Marisol was an unpublished writer. Maybe it was the Hemingway name, or maybe it was the McCartney name. Or even the Moon name. Either way, the book stood a good chance of being published. It was also likely that it could cause a bit of a sensation. There just might be a lot of interest in what Marisol and Kim were cooking up while their husbands were off setting the music world on its ear.

Marisol carefully inserted the sea monster drawing into its folder and put it on the nightstand. They could have this book ready within weeks to show to a publisher. Just in the nick of time. Because life was about to get very busy again.

“Would you like me to write the About the Author blurb?” Paul asked.

“You betcha.”

Paul sat up straight. Marisol could practically see his mind spinning.

“Marisol Hemingway McCartney was born in 1945 in Sonoma, California. She began writing stories as a young girl and was recognized with the Creative Writing award in high school—“

“Boring.”

“Ssh. This is where it gets good.”

“A licensed pilot and animal rights activist, in 1966 the author married the multi talented and much admired singer songwriter Paul McCartney. They reside in London with their twelve pets and six children.”

“Come again?”

Paul chuckled in her ear, making her shiver as he snaked an arm around her waist and lay back on the bed, taking her with him. “The author is a very busy and happy young woman.”

“Lord knows how she has time to write,” she said, just before his lips landed on hers.

 

 

Along with the usual assortment of teenage girls, a young couple with a baby waited outside Cavendish that afternoon for a glimpse of Paul. They proudly showed off their baby girl while Paul signed autographs and posed for pictures.

“We’re your biggest fans,” the young woman said.

“Our first date was to a Beatles concert. You were playing with Roy Orbison,” added her husband.

“Well isn’t that nice,” Paul said. He raised his eyes to Marisol. “Isn’t that nice? Our first date was to see Big O. Do you remember that, love?”

“How could I forget?” Marisol heard a teenage girl at her elbow exhale a longing, sighing sound.

“She’s beautiful,” Marisol said, nodding at the baby.

“She’s the same age as yours,” said the mother, with her eyes still on Paul. “If she’d been a boy she’d have been named Paul or John. We’re thankful she’s a girl. We hadn’t wanted to choose between you.”

Paul laughed and took Melody from Marisol’s arms, wrapping up the impromptu autograph session. “Have a good day everyone.”

 

“That car is following us,” Marisol pointed out, when they’d turned the corner that led to the zoo.

Paul quickened his pace to a near jog, and Marisol was hard pressed to keep up with him. “On your right,” he directed, and they swung inside the park.

“Paul! Paul! Eh up!”

They turned to see three young men jogging toward them. Paul reluctantly waited while the boys caught up, breathing hard.

“Paul, can we talk to you a moment?”

“Did you follow us from my house?”

“Yes. We just abandoned our car in the middle of the road back there.”

“Why?”

A shaggy brown-haired lad coughed and punched himself in the chest a few times. “I'm Dave. We're from Liverpool, we're in a band called Focal Point. We've been writing songs for a coupla years now and we don't know what to do with em. Can you help?”

Paul examined each of them in turn. “Help In what way?”

“We want to record our songs.”

“I could get you a recording contract just like that.” Paul flicked his fingers to illustrate the point. “But why should I?”

“Because we're good, and our songs are good.”

The others nodded in confirmation.

There was a lull in the conversation and Melody took the opportunity to point out a Dalmatian puppy doing his business under the shade of an elm. “Pup pup go poo!”

Paul laughed and Dave laughed.

Paul seemed to make up his mind. He made a writing motion with his left hand. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

The boys scrambled around and between the three of them came up with an envelope and a ball point pen.

Paul scribbled a phone number and handed it back to them.

“Name’s Terry Doran. Telephone him and tell him I sent you.”

Dave’s face split in a wide grin. “‘Yesterday’, mate, that’s my song. I love it.”

“No no no no mate, it’s MY song,” Paul corrected him.

 

“You see, the fans aren’t all bad,” Paul said, when they were once more underway.

“They seemed nice,” Marisol agreed.

“Before you were here, when I was living alone, I had this sort of open house. If American fans came over, I'd invite them in for a cup of tea. I'm like a guru Mari, do you know what I'm saying?”

“I can't say that I do.”

“John and I had a conversation about developing our own label. The Beatles label.”

“Wouldn’t that distract from what you really want to do, make music?”

He shrugged. “It’s only a thought.”

As they neared the zoo, Paul pulled a San Francisco Giants baseball hat out of his back pocket and tugged it low over his eyes. He began using his fake American accent, mostly to make Marisol giggle while they queued for tickets.

“Okay now, fer all you submarine watchers out there, Cuh-zen Bru-skie comin’ atja at one o two point fi-uhv on yer ray-di-yo dial…wassamatta baby? Turn me loose! That’s right!”

An older blonde woman in front of them narrowed her eyes at Paul and glanced briefly at Marisol. Rude loud Americans, Marisol imagined her thinking. But when she looked at Melody, who was happily chewing on her fuchsia elephant, the little girl lifted her hand to the woman, opening and closing her fist in a wave. “Hi Mimi,” Melody chirped. The woman smiled and turned around.

With Marisol’s long blonde hair tucked up under a red newsboy cap, they could be any ordinary young couple bringing their daughter to the zoo on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Outside the Giraffe House, the tallest of the three giraffes leaned its massive neck over the fence and curled its black tongue, lapping treats from a cardboard cup held by a giggling girl.

Melody stared open-mouthed at the scene and Paul whipped out his camera to capture the shot.

A Spanish couple pointed at them and said something to each other. The man approached Paul and said “Senor, por favor, picture? Picture?”

Paul gave an uneasy glance over his shoulder, hoping a mass of people wouldn’t suddenly recognize him.

“Yeah, fine. I don’t mind,” he said finally.

He stepped over and put his arm around the wife. The man with the camera looked at him in the international way that means What the hell are you doing with my wife?

That was when Marisol realized the couple hadn’t recognized Paul at all. They only wanted him to photograph the two of them in front of the giraffes. She doubled over laughing.

She was still laughing when they reached the Elephant House.

“You’re never going to let me forget that are you?” Paul said, shaking his head.

“I can’t stop picturing the way he looked at you when you put your arm around his wife.”

Despite that gaffe, Paul faithfully captured a photographic record of their day: A zookeeper tugging at the shell of a giant sea turtle so they could get a better photo. A friendly sea lion giving his minder a kiss. Jumbo the elephant getting his morning brush up and spraying water from his bucket onto the crowd. Three penguins marching in a line past workmen painting their area and taking no notice of them. Another zookeeper posing for them with two chameleons clinging to his cap. An assistant feeding a baby Madagascar boa constrictor through a funnel. Polar bears peering out from the observation window built into their pool. Melody learning to lick from an ice cream cone.

They made a special visit to the Insect House, since Melody had a fondness for creepy crawly things. One recent warm evening Paul managed to coax a ladybird onto the end of his finger and bring it close to Melody’s face to give her a good look. Before he could react, Melody leaned over and licked the red spotted bug off his finger, sending him into a frantic attempt to sweep all traces of the bedraggled insect out of her mouth before she swallowed it.

From that night Paul had started referring to Melody as his little ladybug.

In front of the Insect House, Paul stopped to tell Marisol a story. Being a Fellow of the Zoological Society, George Martin thought it would be a great idea to have the Beatles photographed outside the Insect House for the cover of the Please Please Me LP, as a play of words on the name Beatles. But the zoo people were very stuffy indeed. “We don’t allow these sort of photographs on our premises,” Paul said, mimicking a plummy, upper crust accent. “It goes against the good taste of the Zoological Society of London.”

“I say, you there,” Marisol said, laughing. “No Beatles in my zoo!”

“So the idea fell down.”

“Bet they regret it now.”

“George rang up the legendary theatre portrait photographer Angus McBean, and he came round EMI House in an almighty rush, just like everything associated with making that disc. He came in and called up the stairs, ‘Are the boys here?’ And when we came out he said ‘Stay right there, boys!’ He laid flat on his back in the staircase well and shot the photograph while we looked over the banister.”

“I remember that picture. It was the on the album you gave me the day we first met. There you all were, four beautiful talented lads, gazing downward for all time.”

Paul got a distant look in his eyes as a slow grin stretched across his features. “By jove, I believe you’re right, lass. Imagine that. It’s been nearly four years now. I’m twenty-five now. An old man.”

“I can't believe I'm twenty-two,” Marisol said, shaking her head. Time was moving on. “Just think, in 1963 you were four raw and inexperienced musicians just dashing off your first album, and by 1967 you’ve changed the world of popular music. And maybe the whole world full stop.”

“In 1963 I was trying to get you to stay in England with me, and it took me nearly four years to get you to say yes.”

“You’re being so romantic today.”

“I’m feeling good today,” he said breezily. “You?”

“Ditto.”

 

They took the long way home, over Primrose Hill. The hike to the top was always worth it, even though the sun was dipping low and the air had turned chilly. As they reached the summit, a large group of people were all looking one way, and that was towards the view. It seemed the whole city of London was laid out. St. Paul’s, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament.

In the summer of 1967, it seemed like London was bursting into bloom, the cultural capital of the world. And Marisol had fallen in love with her new home. Primrose Hill was especially fantastic in summer, with people loosening their ties after work and spreading out shaggily in the sunshine. There was no way not to be filled with a sense of contentment and well-being.

No movie she’d ever seen captured the variety of London: the white stucco buildings with their serene elegance; the red-brick Christmas cake Royal Albert Hall; crazy swimmers diving into the freezing Serpentine Lido; spectacular sunsets from Waterloo Bridge; the neighborhoods surrounding Primrose Hill with their rows of pastel houses draped in wisteria—and the pastel vintage cars parked in front of them; and, near The Regent’s Park, where they would turn back for home, gardens with lush green borders, crawling with roses and humming with life, planted and tended for no other reason than to give people color to look at. London could be pretty easy on the eyes.

As they watched, the evening sun dipped behind a rooftop and the air noticeably cooled.

Paul nudged her with his shoulder. She lost her footing for a minute and took hold of his arm. “Did you have fun today love?” he asked.

She looked him over, all six feet sexiness of him. Her husband looked especially fetching today in his snug blue jeans and white button up shirt and San Francisco baseball cap. He had the look all right. Those warm caramel eyes with their puppy soulfulness, the arched eyebrows that always seemed to be questioning her, that charmingly arrogant grin that she alternately wanted to lick and kiss and smack the hell off his face, depending on her mood. That voice that made her heart leap, especially when close to her ear. And he smelled nice too. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe this man was hers.

“I always have fun with you,” she said honestly.

He liked that answer so much he leaned in and kissed her.

He had a secret weapon behind his kisses where he tenderly placed one hand on the side of her face while he ever so coyly slid his other hand around her rib cage and firmly pressed in, sending tingles through her entire body as if he'd discovered the above the belt G spot.

Suddenly the London air wasn't as chilly any more.

This man was her person—the one who knocked the wind out of her, the one whose touch her body craved and whose words her ears longed to hear. His kisses still thrilled her to her toes. But over the years they’d been together, he had shown her that it wasn't just his kisses and his touch that made her swoon for him, it was the comfort and ease she felt whenever she was around him. They just clicked.

Somehow they realized they were in a public park and ended the kiss, smiling into each other’s eyes.

During the few seconds her parents were getting their kiss on, Melody had wandered over to a grandmotherly looking woman with a golden retriever. They woman was now ushering the toddler back to Paul and Marisol.

“Is she yours?” the woman asked.

“Guilty,” Paul answered, dropping his arms from around his wife.

“Melody. You mustn’t wander off,” Marisol reprimanded her daughter.

But Melody’s attention was focused on the dog. She had no time for her mother’s rules. “Nyah nyah doggie,” she answered.

The woman looked at Marisol. “She’s absolutely lovely. Well done you.”

Down the path went the woman with her dog, and Marisol stared after them, thinking how much she loved her life today.

“What are you smiling about?” Paul asked.

“I’m just happy,” she said simply. “With you, and our little family, and everything.”

“I’m happy too.”

“Choo, daddy. Choo.” Melody tugged at Paul’s jeans and held her foot in the air, showing how her shoelaces had come untied.

Paul knelt down to fix it for her. “If I had magic shoes, do you know what I’d do? I’d skate all over town and then come back to you.”

“Again!” Melody demanded.

“If I had magic shoes, do you know what I’d do? I’d walk right up the wall and then come back to you.”

Paul finished tying the shoe and ran his hand over his daughter’s dark curls. Before getting up, he reached for Marisol, framing her barely swollen belly with his hands and kissing just below her belly button.

“Now we have two babies,” he said proudly. “An inside baby and an outside baby.”

His grin stretched across his face as he looked up at her, with the setting sun highlighting tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and Marisol thought he had never looked more handsome.

He got to his feet and picked up their daughter. “Mrs. McCartney?” he said, offering his arm. “It’s proving to be a lovely night. Might I interest you in a bit of star gazing later from the toppermost of the meditation dome?”

The cheek hurting grin that made its way across her face was a dead giveaway. She’d follow him anywhere.

“Always,” she whispered through her smile. She linked her arm with his and they turned and started down the hill toward home.

_Dear Diary,_

_It’s been exactly a year since Paul showed up in San Francisco with a diamond ring and swept me away to England._

_And what a year it’s been. So many changes._

_Apparently you can get used to anything. I’m hardly bothered any more about people sleeping outside my house and following me to the dry cleaners. And I’m surrounded by people all the time. But they are the people I love, for the most part. The good news is I’ll never be lonely again._

_Progress Report: I have normal nightmares now—clowns, burglars, murderers. I no longer have nightmares about thirteen year olds. Even though they’re still terrifying in groups._

_It’s still weird when people treat me differently since I’m married to Paul. I don’t feel any different but when the elevator doors open and everyone gasps, it’s an alienating feeling. I’m still me, but peoples’ reactions to me have changed. The upside is, Paul and I are in this together. He is my rock, my constant, and I hope he feels the same way about me._

_There were times I didn’t think we’d make it. But then I would get a letter full of nuggets from Grandma Hadley, something like:_

_“The bumps in the road are there to keep us from falling asleep.”_

_And:_

_"We need the darkness to make us appreciate the light.”_

_She always knows what to say._

_It isn’t always roses and sunshine, god knows._

_Like Papa Hemingway used to say, “with writers there is some more acute sense of loss than with other people.” Maybe I do have the souI of a writer. I do have my melancholy moments._

_But I live with a man who makes me laugh, who makes me think, and who always knows what to say and do, to keep me falling in love with him, every day._

_Will we last? Who can say, but we are in love and we'll always have Melody and the one I'm carrying now. I'm betting on silver anniversary, if not gold._

_“Children are like time capsules that we shoot into the future in hopes there will be a world there for them to inherit.”_

_They are loved, longed for, ours._

_We have love, in spades, and when all is said and done, what more do you need?_

_xx_

_Marisol_

 

 

**THE END**

 

 


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